ESC: Not So Broken
by Honestcannibal
Summary: Sherlock had been acting strange since the Irene Adler scenario and John doesn't know why, but he wants to know. If it's not Irene's 'disappearance' that's making Sherlock become more quiet and problematic, then what is? Pairing: Johnlock (more noticeable in later chapters), casefic, angsty and sad. Drug use, mentions of emotional manipulation and bad language.
1. The Billy Regent Case

_**This fanfiction is part 3 of a three part series called 'ESC'. All stories unrelated, but nontheless, part of a whole story. **_

_**I have no idea what inspired me to write this. **_

[this fanfiction is set after A Scandal in Belgravia]

* * *

**ESC: Not So Broken.**

John sighed as loudly as possible as he trudged up the stairs of the flat; again Sherlock had not answered the buzzer even though John texted him mentioning he had forgotten his keys and that he would need to be let in. After ten minutes of trying to call Sherlock's mobile, Mrs. Hudson finally opened the door and greeted John with a gleeful smile among tired eyes.

"Thank you, and sorry - Sherlock's being himself, I did warn him I'd forgotten my keys." John had said when stepping in from the cold.

"Not to worry, now's around the time I'd be having my herbal soother so it's a good thing you did forget your keys," Mrs. Hudson chuckled as she shut the front door, "I haven't heard a peep from Sherlock all afternoon, mind you."

John paused before starting up the stairs, "when was the last time you checked up on him?"

Mrs. Hudson stopped to think for a moment. "well, I went out about eleven to do some shopping, because you know, I sometimes forget to do it and I didn't want to risk not having any sugar for my tea, God forbid! And I came back at about one and went up to do a bit of cleaning and he was laying on the sofa, silent as anything as I babbled on, I just thought he was sleeping but I didn't want to pry-"

"Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson." John smiled quickly as he started back up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, sighing as loudly as possible. The door to the flat was unlocked and opened slightly, revealing a dimly lit living room. An empty dimly lit living room. For a moment John was beginning to think Sherlock had gone out while Mrs. Hudson was unaware - he'd done it before - until he saw the man's coat and scarf on the back of the door.

"Sherlock?" John called from the middle of the living room, peering into the kitchen. He lingered for a moment before silently walking through the kitchen and standing outside Sherlock's bedroom door, listening for any sign of movement. After hearing nothing for a few minutes, John decided that Sherlock must be asleep, which was extremely strange as soon as John noticed that it was only seven in the evening.

John sank down into his chair and sighed again, but this time more out of relief; he gets the whole evening to himself. He gets to relax and not have to worry about being dragged off to some random night club to catch a serial killer or being caught up in some experiment. He was also glad that Sherlock was actually getting some sleep.

John did love the adventures he endured living with his flatmate, he definitely couldn't deny that, it was just nice to have a day to relax and not have to chase after a stubborn genius.

It hadn't been long since Irene Adler had literally thrown herself into their spiral of events and then 'disappeared completely' - dead - but of course John would never tell Sherlock that; the man may not ever admit it, but John was certain he saw a spark between Irene and Sherlock since day one. After Irene had 'disappeared' and John had broken the news to Sherlock (after shamefully backing out of telling him the actual truth), the other man had just been acting weird.

And John knows that his flatmate is beyond weird, his behaviour is beyond weirder, but John also knows that something was _wrong _within the head of Sherlock Holmes.

Firstly, he had been acting slightly off with everybody, more than usual. Just the other day, Anderson had insulted Sherlock in an attempt to cause an argument because he had obviously seen that the man was acting weirder than usual and decided to- well John didn't really know _what _Anderson was thinking when he spouted his insult out in front of everybody, all John knows is that Sherlock's expression suddenly became blank, he turned and looked at everybody in the Yard, stared Anderson in the face and said, 'I couldn't agree more.' And walked out with his usual stride.

John had obviously followed, why wouldn't he? He was more than a little concerned about Sherlock's behaviour towards Anderson, given he'd voiced a little sympathetic sigh as he waited for the paragraphed, uncensored string of amazing deductions about Anderson's current parts of life and his flaws, but when nothing came his way and he saw his flatmate stride out of the double doors, he was allowed to be a little more than concerned.

Another sign is that Sherlock hadn't had his usual routine of annoying habits. When John arrived home from yet another unsuccessful date, there _wasn't _a kitchen table cluttered with petri-dishes and books, there _wasn't _test tubes of unspecified liquid shoved in the fridge and John hadn't seen any human limbs in the flat for about a month. Sherlock had also been playing the violin more often than usual, claiming that 'it helps him think' when John asked.

John had always assumed he just enjoyed the sound of his own talent.

Lastly, and this is John's favourite one, (in a not-so-happy context) Sherlock had been silent for more than a few weeks.

Literally, he would just lay on the sofa in that annoyingly dramatic dressing gown and be quiet for almost a whole day. At first, John assumed he was thinking, so he let the clogs turn in that crazy head of his, but then when Sherlock didn't have any cases on, he began to get slightly worried. He would stare at the body on the sofa, wondering whether he should interrupt the thoughts to offer food of some sort, seeing as he couldn't remember the last time Sherlock had eaten something, then he would wait for Sherlock to ask him what he wanted seeing as John would make it so painstakingly obvious he was standing in the doorway. But nothing would be said, neither by Sherlock or John, so both flatmates just lived in an apartment of silence for more than two weeks.

This is the end of the two weeks, starting to edge into three weeks now, and John is sitting in his chair wondering what it is he should do. Is Sherlock heartbroken? Is that even possible? He can't exactly stroll up to the man and ask him, 'Hey Sherlock, are you heartbroken because you will never see Irene Adler again?'

Well he could but he would rather not imagine the look on Sherlock's face or the defensive, hateful words that would leave the other man's mouth. Sherlock became almost offended when anybody mentioned 'The Woman'.

It takes a minute or so, but John rises from the chair and quietly maneuvers over to the kettle, switching it on and thinking harder than he usually would like in the evenings, especially on this lovely, quiet evening.

Although with Sherlock's recent behaviour, John's been keeping a closer eye on him, as requested from Mycroft of course. John also asked if Mrs. Hudson could check up on Sherlock on a daily basis when John's not home; God knows what he might get up to with something else going around in his head.

One of the worst challenges for John was that he wasn't quite sure on how to deal with _this _kind of Sherlock behaviour because he's never had to. It wasn't at all like 'helping somebody out', it was more of a 'watch a genius forget all the basic daily needs' scenario, if anything, looking after a child.

John makes himself a cup of tea as quietly as possible, because unlike Sherlock, he actually has consideration to other people in the flat. His current plan? Drink his tea, watch some crap telly and then retreat to bed for a few hours of sleep until Sherlock rises from his bedroom and begins creating as much noise as possible.

Just another day at 221B Baker Street.

* * *

It's about nine hours until John's awakened by the sound of another human presence in the flat.

Groaning lightly, John looks at his clock beside his bed to see that it's actually a reasonable time in the morning, so either he had a heavy night's sleep or Sherlock slept longer than him. He debates getting up just yet or stealing a few more hours, and with no seconds thoughts, he settles for stealing a few more hours.

Only a few minutes after he turns over does the door to his bedroom open and footsteps rush in, "John, get up, we've got a case." Sherlock says as he paces in John's bedroom.

John then groans and opens his eyes to glare at the man pacing in his bedroom.

"Oh don't pretend like you were asleep, I knew you were awake moments before I came in." Sherlock dismisses the glare and stands at the foot of John's bed, "now get up."

It's moments like these when John wishes he had a lock on his door. "Ask nicely and I'll consider it." He mumbles tiredly as he wipes his eyes.

"Don't take too long, Lestrade's expecting us." Sherlock then leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. John stares at the door and then around his room, '_well that wasn't strange at all. Of all the times to be quiet, it's when he's leaving._'

With a louder, more tired groan, John lifts himself from the comfort of his bed and gets himself dressed for this 'new case'. He dreaded what this one involved, it could be _anything _when it came to Sherlock. _Anything._

"All right, what's this 'new case' you're talking about?" John yawns as he steps into the living room, only to be turned around and pushed towards the stairs.

"We're going to miss all the fun if you waste any more time." Sherlock almost smiles as he shoves John out of the door, grabbing his own coat and scarf in the process. It was now John's turn to smile as he was pushed out of the door and into a taxi.

The crime scene was in an abandoned car park on the third floor and was as it normally was (normally being used lightly), forensics standing around in their blue suits, lamely speaking to each other instead of doing their job, Sally Donovan stood behind the police tape and glared upon seeing Sherlock approaching.

"Lestrade tells me you were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago." Sally crossed her arms and shot a glance at John in the process. Sherlock didn't even acknowledge her as he lifted the police tape for himself and John then continued to walk towards Lestrade, who had noticed the pair and finished his conversation with a police officer before turning towards them. "You're late."

"What happened?" Sherlock asked immediately. Lestrade raised an eyebrow then began walking towards the body, John followed Sherlock and Lestrade after a moments hesitation, Sherlock hadn't spoken the whole way to the crime scene and now it seemed like he was in a hurry to get away from it.

"Young lad, Billy Regent, was found here early this morning after being reported as missing three days ago."

"Yes, and?" Sherlock looked over the male body curled up on the cold ground, as if he was sleeping except pale and unresponsive. John couldn't see much of his face, but he looked almost sad rather than peaceful.

"And, now here's the funny part," John grimaced at the word 'funny', "the police have records of the same man being reported as missing two months ago, but by a different source - his mum. Apparently, he stopped contacting her completely one day and he had moved away."

"So then...who reported him missing this time?" John asked.

"All we know is that it was a woman. No specific accent, speech impediment or anything, she called up, gave us a name, age and description of identity and then hung up. Call was within a minute so we didn't have time to trace it." Lestrade finished as Sherlock knelt beside the body and started his work, shuffling around the dead man in complete silence as John and Lestrade had a small conversation about the crime.

"John," Sherlock stood and frowned slightly, "how long would you say the body has been here for?"

John was surprised at the sudden question but nethertheless got down on the ground and examined the body, testing the temperature, visiblity of the veins and smell - it was the smell of a dead body for sure - "I'd say about...thirty hours."

"Expert opinion?" Sherlock pressed on, to John's surpirse.

"Er, Cause of death, looks like strangulation - there are small bruises on the neck which indicates that...well, he was possibly strangled." John looked up at the two men and Sherlock nodded lightly before looking at Lestrade.

"So, the call was made three days ago by an unknown source that this man had been reported missing, but he was still alive fourty two hours before he was reported. Obviously he had trusted his killer to have been reported two months before that, perhaps his killer was his lover - judging by the colour co-ordernation of his shirt and socks - a controlling one at that."

"Wait, lover? What, where did you get that?" Lestrade asked suddenly, shaking his head.

"Typical romance scenario, mother is jealous of her son's lover, her son's lover isn't too fond of the mother also so a family crisis breaks out between them. The son, being more of the 'daddy's boy', refuses to listen to his mother's angry words about his lover so he decides to leave the family home and start his new life with his new fiancé, Amy."

John stares at Sherlock from his position on the ground in awe as Lestade sets a questioning look on his face. Sherlock rolls his eyes and approaches the body again, "two tattoos on his body, one on his wrist, the other on the back of his neck. The one on his wrist reads the name 'Amy', the fact that it's on his wrist facing upwards means she must have been fairly close to him for him to print her name on his body. The small coloured hearts around the name proves that it was a lover, not a past lover, a recent one because the skin around the wrist has been mosturised daily and is softer than the other wrist - obviously the tattoo had been scabbing over and causing an itching irritation, perhaps infected and rarely treated.

"The one on the back of his neck reads 'Paul Regent' followed by two sets of dates, one of them dated to last year - that gives the assumption that this man, Paul Regent, his _father, _is dead, so the tattoo is sentimental - both tattoos are sentimental, Billy was a very sentimental person and allowed his lover to take control of his life, forcing him away from his jealous mother and choosing his clothing style. He also has the faint mark of a ring on his left hand, the killer - his fiancé - has removed it...Hmm."

Lestrade was quiet for a moment, letting the information sink in. "Why would his lover-"

"Finacé." Sherlock corrected typing away on his phone.

"Fiancé, then." Lestrade took a glance at John before continuing, "why would his fiancé murder him? And why would his mum report him missing two months before?"

"Get me the files on missing people in the past six months." Sherlock threw over his shoulder as he began leaving the crime scene, "And text me the address of Billy's mother, I'd like to ask her some questions."

Lestrade didn't get to reply as Sherlock had already walked away, so he stood there staring at the retreating back of the tall man in his flashy coat. John sent him an apologetic smile before clearing off as well, jogging to catch up to Sherlock's long strides. Again, he ignored Sally as she sent an insult his way, which was not like Sherlock at all, and as John began to observe these little details a bit _too _much than he should, he was beginning to realize that his theory on something being wrong inside the head of Sherlock Holmes wasn't a theory - it was actually true.

"So about this man, Billy Regent, what's your thoughts?" John asked after a moment of silent walking.

"Weren't you listening? His fiancé murdered him." Sherlock snapped.

"But why?"

"I'm not certain, things don't quite...add up." He looked around, they had just reached the main road, and Sherlock hailed a cab which pulled up beside the pavement in a swift motion that John began to wonder if Sherlock had some sort of magnetic feild that just drew taxis towards him.

"Maybe she just wanted his money." John started up the conversation again after they had settled in the cab.

"She wouldn't have disappeared if she did." Was Sherlock's only answer before they fell into a silence which lasted the entire journey back to the flat.

Once they were indoors, John had walked into the kitchen to avoid worrying himself about Sherlock any longer. The man had been acting far too strange, as he reflected last night. He debated trying to talk to Sherlock about it, but he knew he would just get the silent treatment, so instead he was going to casually have another conversation and see where it would get him. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen and looked over Sherlock's body laying on the sofa, nicotine patch on his forearm already.

"Early night last night?"

Sherlock mutters something and closes his eyes, placing his hand over the nicotine patch and squeezing his forearm slightly.

"What was that?" John came into view now and stood in front of the coffee table where he could see the pale face of his flatmate; the pale, almost _ill _face.

"I said I had a headache." Sherlock said louder with a hint of irritation in his tone. No, John was not going to back down now.

"So that's why you weren't answering your phone - or the buzzer for that matter. We have paracetamol in the cupboard, you could have taken a few, then I wouldn-"

"John as much as I love indulging in pointless conversation with you, I am rather busy right now so this will have to wait." Sherlock interrupted, looking up at John with a splitting glare that could kill. John shuddered under the glare; all the more reason to try and understand why his flatmate was acting like this.

"Sherlock," John sighs.

"What do you want, John?" Sherlock was now fully sitting up, looking at John with those..._gorgeous _eyes-

"You've just been acting...well, not yourself since the whole Adler-since Adler...You know..." John quietened towards the end, he wasn't so sure if he had planned that sentence so well or if it had just sounded better in his head.

Sherlock shoots him a glare at the name, "'Since Alder' what?"

_Abort! Abort!_ "No, nothing, nevermind, just-tea?" John steps back slightly, hoping that he could break the eye contact with Sherlock, but that stare...that extremely unnerving stare that John couldn't break away from. It was terrifying how trapped he felt by just standing two feet from the man. "Since she...left."

"I know she's dead."

John almost chokes where he stands, his mind collapsing in on itself. Sherlock _knew_, how did he know? Mycroft couldn't-wouldn't have said anything, they both agreed. "What, who told you?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment before laying back against the sofa and closing his eyes, his whole body relaxing as he squeezed the nicotine patch against his forearm again, "I'm surprised you would ask me that."

Why did John ask that? This is Sherlock, he probably knew that Irene was dead before Mycroft even knew. Well, he doubted that but it was a possible thought. "I'm sorry." Was all John could say.

"Why are you sorry, she was a criminal and would have been killed regardless of her decisions."

"You liked her though, didn't you?" It wasn't much of a question and probably not a good idea to voice it, but what was the worst that could happen now?

There was a silence that covered the room and after a few minutes, John began to think that maybe Sherlock had fallen asleep so he decided to retreat to the kitchen and make them both tea. Sherlock would be up and pacing later, muttering to himself, maybe just pacing quietly, John never knew, the man was so unpredictable.

He was halfway through stirring his own tea when he heard the buzzer to the door. He peered around into the living room to see that Sherlock hadn't moved an inch, so he guessed he was the one who was going to be getting the door.

John opened the front door to see Lestrade standing there with various files in his arms and not looking too happy, "I've got the files that Sherlock wanted, inside one of them is the address to Billy's mum." Lestrade shoved them into John's arms, "sorry but I'm running late, let Sherlock know that we need this case covered soon."

John nodded and they exchanged goodbyes before he shut the front door with his foot and carefully made his way up the stairs with his hands full of files, there had to be at least fifteen. He dumped them on the kitchen table, careful not to disturb Sherlock anymore than he had that afternoon.

"John?" _Too late. _"Who was at the door?"

John turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway. "Lestrade was dropping off the files you wanted, and the address to Billy's mum's house is somewhere in them."

"Ah, brilliant." Sherlock looked over the files with a small smile quickly before sitting down in a chair at the table and starting to carefully look through each one. John watched him for a moment before remembering the tea and held out the mug to Sherlock, who accepted with a quiet thank you and a quick sip before getting back to work.

John sat down in his chair and switched on the television quietly, careful not to distrub Sherlock's thinking. He absent-mindedly switched through various channels before finding a decent programme to stare at as his mind wandered off. He began debating on whether or not he should get up and go to bed when he started to doze off to an old film that he wasn't quite sure of.

"John." The voice had startled him awake. "John I've got it."

John looked over at Sherlock sitting at the table, two pictures of dead bodies in his hands. "Got what?" John droned out, still half asleep. Sherlock rose from his chair suddenly, dropping the pictures on to the messy pile of papers on the table and looked down at them. John stood from his seat and approached Sherlock's side, examining the pictures.

There were six pictures of different men, one of them being Billy Regent, all laid out in different positions on a pavement. John didn't feel the need to grimace because there wasn't any gore involved, it was just a bit disturbing to see. They all looked completely different and John remembered why Sherlock had perked up in the first place. "Right, so what have you got exactly?" John asked rubbing his eyes.

"She's clever; she's very, very clever." Sherlock almost smirked as he held up one of the six pictures, looking over every detail as John could imagine. He watched his eyes dart to different parts of the picture, his jaw clentch as he suddenly blinked heavily and his eyes widened. "Yes...yes!" He exclaimed as he darted towards his coat in the living room.

John stood by the table, watching Sherlock quickly put on his scarf. "Erm, Sherlock." He caught the man's attention, "care to explain to me what's going on?"

"We have to speak to Billy's mother." Sherlock said quickly, slipping one arm into his coat.

"You do realize it's nine in the evening, I don't think she'd appreciate us turning up at this time of night."

"I need to know why she reported him as missing." Sherlock strode towards the door before John stood in the way,

"Listen," he looked over Sherlock's distressed features. "It's best if we leave it until tomorrow morning."

"Why?"

"Well if some random stranger in a posh coat turned up at your front door late in the evening wanting to interrogate you, wouldn't you be surprised enough to slam the door in their face?" John set an amused look on his face as Sherlock sighed heavily, showing a sign of defeat.

"I need to know _now_."

"No, you need to eat now, and then sleep." Feeling like a parent, John stood his ground, standing in the doorway of the flat. Sherlock stared him down for, what felt like, a good five minutes before sighing again and removing his coat and scarf. John didn't move until he was convinced that Sherlock wasn't going to make a run for the door when he wasn't looking.

"You act as if I'm incapable of looking after myself." Sherlock let his body fall on to the sofa in the most graceful manner John's ever seen.

"You _are _incapable of looking after yourself." John laughed as he moved away from the door and shut it quietly, then moving to the kitchen to hunt around for a take away menu. "Take out sound all right to you?" He called from the kitchen.

Sherlock hummed in response from his space on the sofa, the sound of the television drowning out any silence that entered the room between the two of them. John finally found a menu and stood in the kitchen doorway, "the usual?" He voice idly, typing the number on the phone. There was another hum from the sofa and John looked up from the phone, he let a small smile cross his features as he admired the other man relaxed on the sofa. "You'd better not fall asleep." He chuckled and Sherlock opened his eyes to, as John assumed, look over John's features. He turned away at that moment and called up the chinese restaurant.

Once he had made the call and ordered, he strolled back into the living room and sat in his chair, looking over at Sherlock who looked back at him. They stared at each other for a moment before Sherlock broke the eye contact, looking up at the ceiling instead and letting his head rest back again the sofa again.

John sat forward slightly, resting his elbows on his thighs. "Sherlock, you've been pretty...distance recently. Is there something you want to talk to me about, or...just share with me?"

"Please don't feel the need to fill the silence, John, the television does that for us." Sherlock didn't move an inch as he spoke and something inside John's chest ached at the words.

"For God's sake, I wasn't trying to 'fill the silence', I'm making conversation about something I'm concerned about." This was going to be harder than expected.

Sherlock leaned forward suddenly, looking John up and down before he spoke. "Why would you be concerned about me? Is this about The Woman again, because I thought I made it perfectly clear that-"

"All right, all right!" John snapped more harsher than he intended. He sighed quietly and got himself caught in that _stare _again. "Okay, forget the whole Irene thing, just...chuck it away or delete it or whatever it is you do with, okay? I just feel like something's been bothering you, that's all. That's it, nothing else."

"What makes you feel like that?" John thought he saw a flicker of something in Sherlock's eyes, but it disappeared too quickly for John to observe it.

John shrugged at Sherlock's question finally, "I don't know, I'm just...it's-" John let out a long and heavy sigh. "The way you've been acting for the past couple of weeks, quiet, more hidden than usual - I mean don't get me wrong, I love the quiet evenings and the peaceful night's sleep knowing you're sleeping too," John chuckled lightly, "but it's not you._ Is _there something wrong?"

Sherlock was staring into John now, not _at _him, _into _him - _through _him, and it was really uncomfortable with the silence that followed. The expression on Sherlock's face wasn't anger or sadness; it wasn't really anything. John was beginning to think if he should repeat himself, which is when the buzzer sounded and John visibly jumped.

In an instant, Sherlock was down the stairs to the front door. John blinked a few times before cursing to himself under his breath, _so close. _

Sherlock came back up the stairs with the take away and put it on the kitchen counter without even glancing at John, who was still in his chair. He eventually stood up and stood in the doorway to the kitchen, looking among the mess on the counter top which consisted of various petri dishes full of purple, green and red liquid. Sherlock turned and looked at John expectantly.

"What?"

"Where are the plates?"

"This is our kitchen, how can you not know where the plates are?"

Sherlock sighed and picked up three of the petri dishes, moving them over to the sink. "Get the plates." He began moving the other ones as John moved forward and opened one of the cupboards. Their bodies brushed together slightly and John tensed. Sherlock didn't seem to notice as he moved to the kitchen table and John was thinking - hoping - he'd have a chance to make him notice.

"For future reference, the plates are on the first shelf in the top cupboard, bowls on the second." John let a smile play on his lips as he set two plates on the table.

"Could I get that in writing?" Sherlock turned towards John with a small smile as he tipped an even amount of fried rice on to his plate. John looked up from setting out his own food and smiled back.

They sat down and began eating quietly. "So what have you got on Billy's death then?" John asked.

Sherlock finished chewing slowly before replying, "His killer has murdered men before him." He said simply.

"How do you know that?" John frowned in confusion. He didn't know why was confused, this was Sherlock, he knew almost everything.

"Five other men have been reported missing and then found dead, all reported by a female, same notes of a brief description each time." Sherlock began, pushing his plate away slightly. "All men had a tattoo of a female name on their wrists."

"So if you know this, why do you need to speak to Billy's mum?" John looked at the almost untouched plate of food Sherlock had pushed away, "Aren't you going to eat any more?"

"All of the men were murdered within a time space of two months, however Billy's was three months." Sherlock replied and completely ignoring John's second question, "His mother reported him missing two months before he died, meaning..." He looked at John expectantly again.

John thought for a moment. "Meaning...?"

"Meaning Billy's mother _must_ have known something. His mother reported him missing two months into the relationship, this could have disrupted the murder plans for the killer, resulting in an extra month of playing the innocent lover."

"Wait, so how did you know this murder was linked to the other ones?"

Sherlock let a smile play on his lips. "I didn't."

John looked puzzled and watched Sherlock stand up and place his plate on the counter before heading over to the living room. He sat in silence for a few moments before eating quietly again, thinking what Sherlock meant. _How didn't he know? He never guesses, so he couldn't have guessed._

* * *

It was around 11pm when John decided to call it a night. He'd looked over at Sherlock's body laying on the sofa and thought deeply before asking, "why would she murder all these men?"

Sherlock seemed to jump slightly at the sudden voice in the room. He looked over to John who wasn't standing so far from him. "I'm not sure." He admitted and turned back to looking up at the ceiling, "these men had no records of criminal convictions, no past relationships which involved abuse of any kind, and even so, it's extremely unlikely that she experienced a violent situation in every relationship."

"Not very unlikely, maybe she killed them in self defence?" John suggested with a small shrug.

"John, it's too obvious that these were murders, not in any way an accident or from self defence. They were reported missing and found dead, it took planning, skill, intelligence."

John nodded slowly and took a quick inhale of breath, "well I'm off to bed, do you want anything before I go up?"

"No." Sherlock didn't even think before answering. John paused for a moment,

"Nothing at all, are you sure? Not hungry or-"

"No." Sherlock's reply was more heavy this time, so John just shrugged again and said goodnight before walking up to his bedroom. Being worried about his flatmate was an understatement now.

If Sherlock wasn't affected by the whole Adler scenario, then what was affecting him? What was making him act so different, so _disconnected_? John felt like he _needed_ to know more than _wanted_ to; this was his flatmate, his best friend. It was unbearable not being able to just slip his arms around Sherlock's body and just hold him there, telling him everything he thought of the brilliant man, how distracting his eyes were and how John wanted to just stare into them all day long, read every little secret and note down every emotion they held.

How much he wanted Sherlock to speak to him about himself, he wanted to know _everything_, childhood to future plans, teenage years, one night stands (John doubted he had any, but you never know.), even to the past drug use; everything.

John sighed and fell onto his bed, his pyjamas loose on his body. He didn't realize how exhausted he was from thinking until everything went black.

* * *

**Helloooo everybody, I am not dead! **

**This part took so long to plan out and write, that's why this part is going to be in ****chapters****, ****YES, CHAPTERS!**** because it's going to be extremely long, and intense, and it's the last part of the series and I decided 'hey, why not do a serious Johnlock fanfiction which you're not experienced in doing?' and now I'm regretting it because I've read Johnlock before and everyone else's is ten times the fanfiction mine will ever be ;A; so apologies in advance if my Johnlock is so terrible and stupid, ****but it will get better and more noticeable during later chapters. ****Maybe some kissin'**

**anyway, hope you enjoyed this little chapter, the next one will be out sooooooon and by god I've spent so long planning this murder case, I really hope it makes sense and is worth reading. **

p.s. I apologise for any spelling mistakes or grammar mistakes, this wasn't beta'd and after a while, you get tired of reading through your own fanfictions over and over again. You find any, let me know!


	2. Amy

_Gunfire._

_Smoke._

_Thick swamps full of mud. _

Rain flowing from the sky, almost peeling his skin from his raw face as he pushed through the clinging mud. It began to pull him down further, so he was waist deep in and it kept pulling him down. He fought his way out of the restraints of tall grass and dead leaves, calling out for him team to help him as the gunfire became more distant and the smoke began to fade. He was fighting his way through the darkness until he heard his name being called.

Still fighting, his fist hit something hard and there was a yell. The darkness faded and John opened his eyes, looking around the room he saw Sherlock standing far from his bed, a hand to his nose, blood seeping through his fingers.

John's eyes went wide as he sat up quickly and moved from the bed. "Oh God Sherlock, I am so sorry." He fussed as he tried to inspect Sherlock's bleeding nose.

"Just get me a tissue." Was all Sherlock said as he batted John's hand away with his free one. John didn't hesitate rushing to the bathroom and gathering a large amount of tissue paper and rushing back to hand it to Sherlock, who didn't look too please about having to deal with this whole situation.

Sherlock held the tissue to his nose and looked at his blood covered hand and then down at his crisp white shirt that was now covered in large specks of blood, then up at John, who was extremely concerned about how hard he hit him.

"Stop fussing, I'm fine. My shirt, however, isn't." Sherlock nasally voiced.

"I'm really sorry." John said quickly, "I hope I didn't hit you too hard."

"I said I'm fine." Sherlock assured.

"What were you doing in here anyway?" John asked.

"You said I would have to wait until morning to visit Billy's mother and it's morning. I came in to wake you up but then I heard you yelling and noticed you were having a bad dream." There was a silence before Sherlock looked to the door and started walking out of John's room, "don't take too long."

John watched Sherlock leave and mentally cursed, _damn nightmares_. He was slightly embarrassed about the whole thing, he thought the nightmares had stopped, and they had stopped when he met Sherlock, because when he was with Sherlock, he didn't need to worry about anything other than the man himself. It was nice having to care about someone. He shook himself out of his thoughts and started dressing himself in fresh clothes.

Although these nightmares were extremely annoying, it was better than the few wet dreams he'd experienced after moving in - god forbid Sherlock walking in one morning to him groaning and- John dismissed the thought, _that would be just too embarrassing. _Then he wondered what Sherlock would actually do in that kind of situation...

He trotted down the stairs and into the living room where Sherlock was standing, new shirt on, tissue removed him his nose and the blood had been cleared. All that remained was a dark bruise that had already began forming on the bridge of his nose, staring John right in the face. He can't even think about the fact that he had actually hit Sherlock without feeling guilty. Of course during the search for Adler, Sherlock had asked John to punch him in face, although John had hesitated, he knew Sherlock was extremely serious, so he had no choice.

John went to speak but Sherlock spoke first, "For the last time, I am fine. Are you ready?"

"Yes, I wouldn't be waiting here if I wasn't." John smiled slightly, grabbing his jacket from the back of the door as Sherlock put on his coat and scarf.

* * *

Billy Regent's home was small and dark, even at 10am in the morning. As soon as John had stepped out of the cab and on to the pavement of the quiet neighbourhood, he sensed the sadness and loss that the whole street possessed. He took a glance at Sherlock, who was looking around the street slowly, obviously observing every tiny detail possible.

"That house, yeah?" John asked, pointing to the small, dark house on the opposite side of the street.

Sherlock seemed to take a moment to reply, still looking around the street. "Yes." He stepped forward and crossed the street, gliding inbetween parked cars almost like a ghost. John followed quickly and walked up the steps to the front door behind Sherlock.

Two rings of the doorbell and a dark haired teen, who John assumed to be Billy's sister because of the youth in her face, answered. A chain was across the inside of the door and the dark haired woman peered out slightly, looking at them. "Hello?"

"Hi, yes, Amanda Regent I suppose. Is your mother in?" Sherlock asked professionally, his stance changing drastically. John didn't like it.

"Who are you?" She asked wearily, looking Sherlock up and down.

"We're with the police." John interrupted, "Er, John Watson and my colleague, Sherlock Holmes."

The young teen, Amanda, nodded stiffly. "Wait here." And she disappeared from her spot behind the door.

John looked at Sherlock. "Try not to be too...try not to be yourself."

Sherlock frowned at him, his eyes showing something that looked like, was that, hurt? "why?"

"This family's just lost a member, and unlike you, they can't just move on and stop caring about it." John wanted to add another sentence but instead waited for a reply. After a few moments, John glanced over to Sherlock who wasn't paying attention to anything and probably didn't hear him. "Just...keep in mind that they're sensitive at the moment. All right?"

It's not that John didn't think Sherlock was capable of caring, _God he hoped he wasn't_, he just seemed to act like a completely uncaring person when it involved other people apart from John, Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade.

Oh and Molly, should never forget Molly.

Sherlock didn't have time to reply as the door opened full and Billy's mum, Tina, stood there, her face lacking any sort of happiness. "I've already spoken to the police, I don't want to speak to any one else." Her voice was soft and John could tell she wasn't angry, just stressed.

"We understand that, but we have a few more things we need to know before we can continue the investigation." John decided he was going to do all the talking, Sherlock could just 'observe' and explain it all later. Tina seemed to think for a moment before opening the door more wider and ushering the two of them in.

They were led into a dark sitting room which also joined with the dining area. The curtains were open slightly, letting a small streak of daylight into the house, as John looked on, he noticed that that was the only piece of daylight in the home. Tina sat in an arm chair opposite the sofa and pointed for them to sit down.

Amanda had been staring at the two of them from the dining table the entire time they were sitting and asking questions, her stare never wavered even when Tina called over to her to get some tea for them. John narrowed his eyes in her direction after she left, slightly suspicious of her behaviour. Maybe she knew who they were.

Sherlock spoke up suddenly, mentally startling John. "Why did you report Billy missing two months before his murder?"

Tina looked taken aback at his sudden voice. "I-I don't...He went missing."

Sherlock leaned forward in his seat slightly, speaking with a low tone. "Did you know something about her?"

"A-about who?" Tina was visibly crashing, her hands began to shake and her eyes began to water. John gaped at the situation, wanting to grab Sherlock by the coat and slam his head into a wall for being so inconsiderate. _I fucking told him. _

"Don't play coy, you know exactly who."

"Sherlock..." John warned. He admired the man, but sometimes he wanted to kill him.

"I honestly don't know...I don't know what you're-"

"You knew if you reported him missing before she did, you would disrupt her plans for his murder. But how, _how_ did you know?" Sherlock was mostly asking himself rather than Tina, his stare leaving her face and searching the room.

"I found an old tattoo needle and loads of IDs with different names on them." Amanda spoke as she appeared in the doorway of the living room. All eyes travelled in her direction and she shook slightly at the weight of the stares. "I wasn't being nosey, I swear, she asked me to take her bag to Billy's room so I did and lots of her stuff fell out. She had all these fake IDs with different names but the same pictures on them, like, Laura Faugh, Emily Trot, Jennifer Barlot - those are the only names I remember and she caught me; her face was evil and I didn't know why she looked so angry at the time, I thought she was a fraud or something." Amanda let out a sob before continuing.

"She accused me of spying and she said, she said if I were to tell anyone, she would make sure it was my body that was found next and I had no idea what she meant at the time so I just ran out of the room and away from her, and soon after I broke down to my mum and told her everything, but by this time, Billy had already asked Amy to marry him and had moved out." Amanda was now sitting on Tina's lap, crying into the sleeve of her shirt.

Sherlock and John glanced at each other before Sherlock spoke softly, which surprised John. "How did you know that Amy was going to do?"

"Me and mum watch a lot of TV together, so we saw the murders over the months and we wanted to make sure nothing happened to Billy before- before it was-" She choked out a sob, "before it was too late."

Sherlock leaned back in his seat, the look on his face was obvious that he was calculating all this new information.

"Was Amy a nice person?" John asked. Tina chuckled weakly,

"Certainly not. She was a terrible girl, always putting Billy down and acting sweet and innocent. Billy couldn't see it, but she was very, very manipulative." Tina ran her fingers through Amanda's long hair, "on Amanda's birthday, she-"

"Say that again." Sherlock interrupted. John looked between Sherlock's focused stare to Tina's surprised face.

"Amanda's birthd-"

"No no, before that."

"She was very, very manipulative."

Then he was silent for a few more moments, the quietness making everybody but Sherlock look at each other in a confused manner. "Billy had a tattoo of her name on his wrist before he disappeared, correct?" He spoke up again.

"Yes."

"He kept complaining that it burned and itched, and it bled really badly that he had to put a bandage on it." Amanda sniffed quietly. "It hurt for a long time and sometimes he cried."

"That's all we need, thank you for your time." Sherlock stood from the sofa quickly, John following suit. Tina scooted Amanda off of her lap quickly and moved to the living room door.

"T-that's - it's fine, I could -" She stuttered, unheard by Sherlock as he moved passed her and walked to the front door, letting himself out. Typical Sherlock.

John, on the other hand, stopped beside Tina, "sorry, he's just-he's Sherlock so, you know..."

"I don't, but it's fine." She smiled slightly.

"If you ever need to talk to someone, here's my number, I know it's...difficult losing a loved one." He handed her a small, white card. She happily accepted and smiled again,

"Thank you. So much." She wiped her eyes at the small tears and John smiled warmly at her, saying his goodbyes and leaving. He did genuinely care for their clients, no matter who they were. Tina and Amanda had been through hell and back with this whole murder scenario - being pushed here, pulled there, not being helped - and John guessed it must be quite hard looking after a young teen when losing a son and a husband.

John smiled to himself as he reached the corner of the street where Sherlock was waiting for him.

"It's not a good idea to become close to clients, John." Sherlock had a slight warning tone to his voice which John had never heard before. He looked up at the man who hailed for a uncoming taxi.

"I'm not 'becoming close' to her, I just offered her a shoulder to cry on." John replied once they had climbed into the cab. Sherlock replied with an amused 'mmm' and John wondered what that meant.

"I'm impressed." John admitted.

"With what?" Sherlock asked looking out of the cab window, watching the people go passed.

"That you managed to act like a dick and still get the answers we needed." John grinned at Sherlock, who turned to John and chuckled slightly. They somehow managed to end up staring at each other, and John felt himself melting into the stare - those eyes were just too much not to stare at.

John coughed when realising the cabbie was glancing at them in the mirror and looked away. Sherlock did the same and John damned that cab driver.

"So, Amy was very manipulative." He dared to fight the oncoming awkwardness away with everything he had, even though he was sure he saw a spark between them as their eyes met, John was pretty certain he was too quickly conclusive and that sometimes became a problem.

"She was in control of each man during the relationship." Sherlock began, his voice smooth and low. "She drove each of them away from their families, tattooed them by herself with her own needle - possibly because of her possessive nature - changed her name each time during another relationship, _murdered _these men for a reason, _what is that reason_." He sounded frustrated, his fingers tapping on his knee in irritation.

It must be difficult, thinking so much but not being able to put it to use because of lack of information, John thought.

"Calm down, we'll look at the files when we get home and we'll try and find a link."

"It's no use, I've looked over every file, what could you possibly find that I haven't?" Sherlock snapped. His words were harsh but John knew he was just irritated - like a child. As always. John smiled to himself again. _Seems like we have the old Sherlock back._

* * *

**Apologies for spelling/grammar mistakes and shortness of this chapter - this is all I have written ;A; this case is becoming extremely devouring and it's the end of the easter term and I still haven't learnt my lines for drama - god help us all - jesus dicks. **

**as I always say: bare with me, Johnlock will get more noticeable during later chapters. Hopefully. **

**I am so terrible at this. **


	3. You Don't Think

"I'm gonna kill him." John muttered as he sat up in his warm, cosy bed. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. "Yeah, I'm definitely going to kill him."

_3 o'clock in the fucking morning. _John almost growled as he ripped the covers off his body and stormed out of his bedroom. Yes, it definitely wasn't the first time John had been woken by the sound of the violin playing downstairs, but it certainly had been the first in a long time. John had gotten so used to his (almost) full nights of sleep during the 'living with not-so-Sherlock weeks' that his system had now just automatically adjusted to wanting to kill the son of a bitch who wakes him up at three o'clock in the morning.

As he reached the living room, the violin stopped for a few seconds until he reached the door way and then it started back up again. Sherlock must have been composing.

"Do you have _any _idea what time it is?" John tried to stop himself from yelling loud enough to wake the neighbours, but he assumed that was pointless now.

Sherlock didn't answer, he was facing the window, holding the violin and bow with delicacy as he, what John assumed, thought. He took this chance to admire his flatmate from a different angle, one where he's relaxed and distracted, not rushing into danger and pissing people off.

John let his eyes wonder over Sherlock's body, sucking in every detail - every curve and dip, the way his skin glowed in the dimly lit light, and _that arse-_

The violin had stopped and Sherlock had slowly turned around to face John, confusion obvious on his face. John swallowed hard and flickered his eyes away from Sherlock before regaining his angry expression. _God _he was tired. "Oh, did I wake you?" Sherlock asked almost too innocently as he placed his violin gently on his chair.

John stared incredulously at Sherlock, he opened his mouth to speak but decided not to, it was late - _early _- and he knew he would end up saying something he would regret in the morning - _later in the day _- meaning he would have to apologize to a sulking Sherlock who wasn't actually offended by what John had said, he just loves to be dramatic.

The man was one giant wonder. How somebody could be _that _brilliant yet so...abnormally childish in some ways and strangely intreguing in others. Well, Sherlock was always so intreguing, similar to a drug-

_Wait, that's a bad metaphor. _

John stopped thinking and snapped back to reality. "Did you wake me? _Did you wake me-do not even ask that-it is three o'clock in the morning Sherlock-OF COURSE YOU WOKE ME." _John tried not yelling again but just couldn't stop himself. Sherlock may be brilliant, talented, extremely attractive and-

_Stop. _

He may be brilliant, but he was beyond annoying. Not all the time, probably fourty percent of the time but that wasn't the point.

John reviewed Sherlock's taken back expression, obviously he hadn't even noticed the time because he was too busy in his '_mind palace_'. John loved that expression; it was rarely ever used and when it was, John sometimes had to fight the urge to just hug the other man.

"I-" Sherlock began, but John wouldn't let him finish.

"No, shut up, I'm really not in the mood for your remarks right now." It sounded harsh, but it was partly true.

Sherlock, as it looked, was observing John's stance, trying to figure out why he was moody - John could feel his eyes scanning his body and he felt his face heat up slightly at the thought before he sighed and sat down in his chair, looking into the fireplace. "I know you need your thinking space and I _know _you play the violin to help you think, but it wakes other people up so could you perhaps-"

"All right." Sherlock nodded slightly.

John looked up from the fireplace with puzzlement, "what?"

"You _were _going to ask me to stop playing the violin at ridiculous hours of the morning, weren't you?" Now Sherlock looked puzzled.

"Well, yeah, but-"

"And I said all right. I will take note not to disturb anybody during the late hours of the evening and the early hours of the morning by playing my violin." Sherlock glanced at the clock, "I'm rather tired. Goodnight John." And he glided through the kitchen, into his bedroom and with a quiet shut of the door, he was gone.

John was alone, sitting in the chair, extremely baffled by what had just happened. That, that was unusual, even for Sherlock.

Maybe he didn't have the old Sherlock back.

* * *

After sitting in his chair for ten minutes trying to understand who stole his flatmate and replaced him with this, this _imposter_, John finally decided to head back to bed, only to be woken a few hours later by Mrs. Hudson knocking gently on his door.

"Inspector Lestrade's here to talk to you- oh sorry, did I wake you love?" She asked as she opened the door slightly, "didn't think you'd still be asleep, it's just gone ten."

"That's fine Mrs. Hudson." John did his best to smile even though he was extremely tired, "Lestrade's here?"

"Yes, he's downstairs in the living room, I thought I'd better let him in and make him a cuppa because he is a lovely man, not too old, not too young. And he always has that natural feel about him, don't you think? Such a-" John sat up as Mrs. Hudson rambled on in the doorway. He rubbed his eyes and stepped out of bed just before Mrs. Hudson had finished, smiled and finally said, "I'll leave you to it."

"Mrs. Hudson?" A thought suddenly crossed John's mind, "is Sherlock not awake?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and shrugged. "I'm not sure, I did knock twice but he didn't answer."

John paused. "Right, okay. Thanks."

"No worries." Mrs. Hudson smiled and left.

John pulled on some jeans and a shirt, lost in his thoughts. Surely Sherlock would have been awake by now, especially if Mrs. Hudson had called on him. Twice! He thought to look for himself, and he was going to.

After slicking his hair back slightly, John went downstairs and regarded Lestrade with a small nod. "Just getting Sherlock up, won't be a minute."

"Blimey, lucky sod gets a chance for a lay in and uses it." Lestrade leaned back in the chair as a small chuckle left John.

John knocked on Sherlock's bedroom door.

Once. "Sherlock?"

Twice. "Sherlock."

_What the hell is he doing? _A tiny sense of worry was weighing on John's shoulders, especially after the strange encounter last night.

He placed his ear on the door to hear nothing, after a few minutes of hearing nothing, John sighed, "right, I'm coming in." And John opened the door to find-

Nothing.

An empty bed, sheets ruffled and pillows strewn over the bed, but other than that, nothing. John felt a wash of relief then the worry came back, so he rushed into the living room to find Sherlock's coat not there and his scarf gone too.

"What's wrong?" Lestrade sat forward, obviously seeing the concern on John's face.

"Sherlock's gone." John said to himself more than Lestrade, "Sherlock's not in his room, his coat's gone and- this is not right. There is something definitely wrong with him, Lestrade, I don't know what's going on with him but I know something isn't right."

"Now wait a second," Lestrade stood from the chair and approached John's panicked body. "Start from the beginning, what happened?"

John sat down on the sofa and put his face in his hands, Lestrade sat opposite him on the coffee table. "Right, where do I even begin?" John tried to laugh. "Before, I thought he was acting strange because of Irene Adler - you know, The Woman, The Dominatrix." Lestrade nodded.

"Well, it turns out it wasn't because of her. And by acting strange, I mean...well, just not being himself, sometimes he's himself, other times he'll just lie here and not even notice _anything_. Of course he's still frustrating at times, but other times he's just, almost like a shadow of himself." John sighed and looked at his hands in his lap. "And I don't have a clue what's causing it."

When not hearing any reply from the other man, John looked up to see Lestrade staring at him. John immediately saw the flicker in his eyes and his mind backflipped.

"You don't think..." Lestrade began.

John rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled heavily, "maybe. Just maybe. It makes sense."

Lestrade stood and took his phone from his pocket. "I'll get the team down here, they can-"

"No, no. Don't." John stood suddenly and shook his head. "I'll have a look, and if I find anything I'll let you know straight away. I want to talk with him on his own."

There was a heavy silence as Lestrade and John stared at each other before Lestrade put his phone away and nodded. "Right, yeah, okay. That's fine. I, uhm, I just came over to ask about the Billy Regent case, if you've gotten anywhere with that, but I'll come back after-if you find anything, or even if you don't." Lestrade struggled with the words before shaking his head and smiling to himself. "Christ, I really hope you don't."

"I hope I don't either." John replied, hiding all of his anger and concern. They exchanged goodbyes and as soon as Lestrade left, John darted to Sherlock's bedroom; he wasn't sure whether it was worry or doubt that made him want to get it over and done with. If Sherlock was using again, he did a bloody good job of hiding it.

Anger suddenly flushed over John and he began searching every part of Sherlock's room, from under his bed where boxes of old files and random pieces of paper were stored, to on top of his wardrobe, where there were more case files covered in a thin sheet of dust. John gave up after half an hour of full on searching.

Then he noticed something.

One of the floorboards under the nightstand was free of any dust, even though the gap was small, John could easily see it with his sudden hypersensitive vision. He got down on his knees and moved the night stand to reveal a loose floorboard.

_Bingo. _

He lifted it up and inside was a fairly small, rectangular object, John assumed it was a box, wrapped in a black, silk cloth. Something pushed John to reach down and lift it out from under the floorboards. He placed it on the bed and moved everything back, not caring if it wasn't 'perfect' because if this box had what John thought it had in it, Sherlock was going to get more than an earful. As he moved the nightstand back, an address book fell on to John's head and landed half open on the floor. Since John was being nosy anyway, he decided to take a quick peek, and to his surprise, he didn't find much apart from his and Mycroft's name written down.

John turned his attention back to the box on the bed and something ached in his chest. He didn't want to look, he didn't want to know if what he thought was true. He was thinking of putting it back and not ever mentioning or even thinking about it again, but he decided against that as he reached out and unwrapped the cloth. All he could think was _why._ _Why_ was Sherlock doing this again? Why turn to drugs when John was perfectly available to speak to if he had problems. The thought of drugs had never even crossed John's mind because he'd forgotten, and that made him feel ten times worse.

The box looked expensive, similar to an old cigar box except slightly bigger. The inside was lined with black silk and the whole thing was complete in tact; as if it were treasured.

Peering inside box, he discovered just what he feared.

Inside the box was a carefully placed syringe - Ultrafine U-100, 1cc, to John's medical knowledge: an insulin syringe - and a small clear bag of white powder. Along the inside of the box, lining the lid, were neatly placed needle gauges in a row. Three were missing and John shook his head slightly.

It was all so specifically placed that John's concern grew even bigger, seeing as everything of Sherlock's was messy. Some of his belongings were tidy, that word being used lightly, but not like this - not organised as if it were extremely precious.

John shut the box, wrapped it back up and left Sherlock's bedroom, taking it with him and placing it in his own armchair. He didn't want to have to do this, he didn't want to cause a fuse to erupt between him and his flatmate, his best friend, his _crush_.

But John was angry. He prepared himself once he heard the front door shut and footsteps coming up the stairs to the flat. Sitting in his chair with the box on his lap, he waited.

* * *

_Why is everybody so sensitive? So boring. _

_So unbelievably dull. _

Sherlock had recently just been to see Jacob Phillips' family, he was the previous victim of this 'Amy' - the murderer - and he must have miscalculated the reaction of that simple question the mother didn't answer.

'_Apart from your husband's drinking habit and your heroin addiction, do you have any idea why Jacob hated you?_'

Although that could have gone better, he did find out a few interesting facts. Amy wasn't Amy for long, she had gone by the name of Hazel before. _There must be a link somewhere. Anywhere. _

Recently Sherlock had become frustrated with this case. Everything was so simple yet nothing made any sense, who is 'Amy', why does she change her name, why is she doing this?

It made Sherlock want to rip his hair out, he felt beyond stupid - _the answer must be somewhere _- and John wasn't of any help. They had gone over the files again and there was nothing, absolutely nothing that Sherlock hadn't already pointed out. But, no, John just had to keep asking the same thing over and over again until it just got so incredibly clutched-

So aggravating-

_So fucking maddening_ that Sherlock had to get out. He'd stood up and ignored John's puzzlement as he retreated to his bedroom. He knew it wasn't John that caused it, he knew the other man was trying to help (as always), but the case and the confusion was too much.

He needed it, and he needed it too much.

Sherlock had promised Lestrade to stop, and he did, but then the stress of John had entered his system. He was feeling too much for the other man; it was questionable as to _why _he was feeling anything for John, he had never felt anything for anybody - well that was obviously a lie, perhaps he just had never felt so strongly about John as he had about other people. He certainly wouldn't compare his feelings to John with his feelings about Mrs. Hudson, God no.

And before he thought he sounded rather deprived, Sherlock knew exactly what feelings were. He knew what anger was, he knew what compassion was, he knew what love was. It just seemed as of recent he had been feeling a lot of those certain emotions and he wanted to know _why _he had been feeling them for the shorter, much more attractive John Watson.

John was John, there was nothing else he could say. Out of every single word within the English language - or any other language for that matter - not one of them could describe John.

It sounded idiotic, too pathetically romantic and cliché; it sounded just like Sherlock had wanted it sound, although he didn't know why. And as everybody knows, Sherlock doesn't take too kindly to not knowing things.

Which is another reason why he needed it. He needed the cocaine for these exact purposes, because he didn't know _why._ And it seemed as if he didn't know anything at this particular moment in time because he was too much of an idiot to figure out something - _this stupid case -_ so plain and simple.

As much as he tried to hide his non-addiction, it was beginning to get difficult. John was asking questions about how he felt and it was getting too claustraphobic. He felt like John was closing in on him, he felt as if John would find out about his idiotic senses of need when he felt ignorant.

His head was starting throb - he needed it.

It's not so much that he needed it because he was an addict - because he wasn't - it was just a need to become slightly more intelligent, if that was possible, and a need to fight the surfacing human natures of interest.

Sherlock thought back to last night, when he'd accidentally woken John up with his thinking method. John had been angry, of course, and then he seemed to calm down and Sherlock just knew John was going to speak about _feelings_ or some other nonense that would make his craving more intense. He decided to just go to bed, make a fake promise to John and go to bed before things got out of hand.

Then a few nights ago when John had told him he was concerned about him, and Sherlock couldn't help but let a small smile cross his features, because John cared and it felt nice. But the silence that followed - that wasn't nice. Sherlock was going to do it, he was actually considering telling John everything, from his non-addiction to his want for human intimacy with John. Then he had re-considered and cowered out.

As usual.

His thoughts were interrupted when the cab driver called out his address, he looked up to 221B after paying the driver and stepping out of the cab. Something felt...wrong.

He pushed himself forward and into the flat, climbing the stairs as his limbs felt heavy and his breath quickened - he really, _really_ needed it. As he thought, John was in his chair, reading an article in the newspaper. If Sherlock disregarded him, no questions would be asked, so he did. When walking into the flat, he glanced at John quickly and went straight to his bedroom and shutting the door.

Removing his coat and scarf, he quickly moved the night stand, lifted the floorboard and-

No.

_No. _

He stood and noticed his hands were beginning to tremble. The dread began to rise from the pit of his stomach like bile and he suddenly felt sick.

Then he realises, just at the last minute, he wasn't careful enough - he wasn't _smart_ enough - to know that John was on to his movements, his behaviour. Those tiny moments in the living room and kitchen where he would stall himself, those hours of quiet - oh how he had underestimated John - where he would stare for longer than usual in _need _for the drug and all that time,

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. _

John had noticed - John knows.

If only he had seen the misplaced address book on the nightstand, where it had been accidentally knocked off (perhaps on purpose) and put back with no effort to put it back in the exact position it was in before.

Turning his nervous - _how ridiculous_ - body around, he sees John in the doorway, holding a small, black cloth covered box, and just in those few seconds, he feels his whole world crumble from underneath him.

_John knows._

* * *

**Well, well, well. I would say that's a plot twist but it isn't, and I wish it was. **

**It's kind of difficult juggling a case and Johnlock in one fanfic, so please don't hate me if it's confusing or annoying how I suddenly bring up the case and then romance and then the case ect. **

**But anyway, this was fun to write, even though my girlfriend fell asleep half way through (so much for being supportive :c), because I had this idea for a long, long time and it's usually around 1am when I get inspiration to write things. Especially when I have an exam in a few hours! WOO! I also hope the whole Sherlock bit is okay? I was iffy with writing from his POV but it was really fun c: **

**Until next time my lovelys! **

**p.s. any grammar or spelling mistakes, apologies! Nobody betas my work so I am sad :c**


	4. John Knows

**Bonjour my lovelys, it is summer here in England and I am planning on using my lonely days writing up ALL of my fanfiction chapters! Yes, ALL OF THEM! My Homestuck ones and maybe I'll go and review my Assassin's Creed ones again? Maybe :v There's more to this fanfiction than there will EVER be in my other ones, so I'm keeping the chapters quite short. There will be two cases in this fanfic and I'm thinking it's gonna be around 40,000ish words long, but that's a rough estimate. **

**Anyway, Enjoy! ~**

* * *

John watched as Sherlock turned to him, his eyes locking immediately with the box, then flickered up to John's and suddenly the air between them became thick and tense. John couldn't quite figure out what Sherlock was thinking - he never could - but it didn't seem like anything towards anger. Sherlock went to speak but then he seemed to decide against it as he just kept his eyes focused on the box in John's hands.

John thought maybe it was to do with the fact that he himself was just radiating outrage, the way his hands gripped at the box so tightly that he thought it might break under the pressure, and yes, he might have wanted to smash it but that wouldn't help the situation.

The silence dragged on for a few more moments and John noticed just how exhausted Sherlock looked, how vunerable and tired he seemed. _That's what the drugs do, why can't he see that? _

It all changed when Sherlock finally spoke up, his voice sounding hesitant and unsure. "What were you doing searching through my things?"

John blinked a few times in astonishment, he wasn't exactly expecting that question when it was obviously coming his way. "Seriously? That's what you're asking." He scoffed, "I just found your drug stash and you're asking me that."

"Well you would have never found it if you didn't look, so why were you looking?" Sherlock had now straightened his posture and was glaring at John dangerously. This was obviously not good.

"Oh I thought I'd impersonate you for a change."

"You had no right."

John raised his eyebrows. "Didn't I?"

"Who the _hell _do you think you are?" Sherlock raised his voice and John felt a shiver go down his spine. Sherlock had never raised his voice to John, in fact, he'd never been angry at John before - well, angry enough to lose his usual low, smooth voice.

John was quiet for a moment as they stared each other down. Sherlock's glare was intense and heavy and John felt like he was being weighed down by it; he didn't like the feeling, not one bit.

Sherlock was angry, it was obvious in his expression, his posture and his shaking fists. John had a feeling it was slight panic, causing unecessary anger to drive it's way into the brain. If John were to get even more angry - oh, he was so, _so _angry - things would just get worse, possibly violent and that wouldn't work out too well for either of them.

It took a great amount of power but John pushed all his anger aside and closed his eyes, took a deep breath and relaxed his tense shoulders. "I'm your friend and I was worried about you, and I'm glad I was." John motioned to the box in his hands.

Sherlock looked over John again, his glare not faulting for a second. John took this opportunity to speak again. "How long?"

A scoff from the other man made John clentch his jaw. _Don't punch him, don't punch him, don't punch him. _"I'm not some rebellious teenager." Sherlock spat the words with acid in his voice.

"Don't. Just- how long have you been using?" John held the box looser in his grip, relaxing his shoulders again so he didn't look like he wanted to just give up. He wasn't going to give Sherlock the satisfaction. He knew immediately that Sherlock wouldn't lie, but he would be difficult if John didn't ask the right questions.

There was a silence before an answer. "Three weeks."

_I knew it. _John nodded, "so since..."

Sherlock shot him another glare, "this has nothing to do with _Her._"

"Then why." John was losing his temper, "Why, Sherlock? And don't tell me it's because of the cases, because I know that's bullshit."

"Oh? And why would it be 'bullshit'?" Sherlock had an amused tone in his voice, "What other reason could I give you when that's the only one I have."

"You've had hardly anything on these past three weeks, so come on, tell me." And John thought he wouldn't lie. "It better be a damn good reason for me not to call Lestrade right now."

Sherlock quietened, losing eye contact with John and looked down at the floor instead. "I get bored."

_Lie. _

"Right. Well okay." John looked around Sherlock's room before nodding to himself. "Yeah, that's a good enough reason for me not to call Lestrade."

"If you tell him, it will be the end of my work." Sherlock didn't look up, but his voice was low and quiet.

_Like a scolded child. _

"And whose fault is that?"

"John." Sherlock looked up, something unknown to John in his eyes. "Please don't tell Lestrade."

John paused. _Did he seriously just plead? _Confusion overwhelmed him, although he could understand why Sherlock would plead; the cases Lestrade gave him were all he had and evidently, without those, he becomes bored.

"I told Lestrade how you had been acting because I was worried. You had disappeared this morning and that wasn't at all like you - you don't just go off on your own like that, well not without me." John started quietly. "He suggested that you had been taking drugs, so I searched. I told him I would call him and tell him if I found anything."

Sherlock didn't speak but his gaze didn't leave John.

"If you promise me you will never, _ever _touch this stuff again, I won't tell Lestrade." John bargained.

Although he was still extremely angry, he considered how difficult it must be when your brain is constantly racing and things don't make sense somtimes, how much conflict Sherlock must have with himself must be extremely overwhelming, and John did feel sympathetic towards him.

But what if Sherlock decided to keep using? What was John supposed to do then? He can't stop him from it, the only sensible thing to do would be to send a little annonymous message Mycroft's way and hope for the best.

He looked over said man whose gaze had left him and noticed how he looked to be considering the deal. John still thought he was lying to him, it wasn't _only_ because he got 'bored' - it _had _to be something else. John knew it.

Sherlock looked up at John again and nodded.

John felt a weight lift off his shoulders. "I mean it, Sherlock, you start on the drugs again and-"

"I won't. I promise." Sherlock assured.

John nodded at the assuring, low voice and looked at the box in his hands. "Right, well...what should I do with this?"

"Chuck it out."

"But the box looks expensive, don't you-"

"No." Sherlock cut passed John, resulting in John strengthening his grip on the box as the other man passed, setting him a knowing glance before disappearing into the living room.

John stood alone in the bedroom door way, a small sigh of relief left his mouth before he hurried upstairs to his own bedroom. Sherlock told him to throw the box away, but John wasn't going to. He wasn't too sure _why _he wasn't going to, but something was nagging at the back of his mind telling him not to.

* * *

The trick is:

Don't panic.

And Sherlock didn't panic. He got angry, yes, just ever so slightly angry because-well, John - his John - _knew. _

This man, his John, standing in his door way was holding his drug stash and knew what it was because, well, he'd obviously looked inside, it would be ridiculous to assume that John had _guessed_ that his drugs were inside and decided to obide by his right to privacy.

The most ridiculous thing that happened was that John _still _thought it was to do with Irene Adler.

Adler was a good play - _a very, very good play _- but the romance involved was not romance at all, of course, it would never _be. _She was too flattering, more importantly, she played him more than he played her.

And Sherlock didn't like that.

He always had the upper hand, always on top of every situation and deduction. Adler was just a woman behind an identity - not even a woman at all; _The_ Woman.

If he had to admit it, yes, he admired her. She was one of the various beautiful women he had laid his eyes on and her flirtatious nature was of high regard. However, Irene Adler - _not dead _- was, and Sherlock hated to admit it, too much to handle.

Of course, John and the others (who ever else was interested in his love life) misunderstood the situation and Sherlock would rather let them believe what they already know -_what they don't know- _rather than having to explain how he saved Adler's life - _not_ because of guilt - but because of pure understanding.

Understanding, that is, of how needing some sort of protection can lead you down a dangerous and misjudging road.

Sherlock's protection was the drug. Although others may not see it the way he does - _when does anybody see anything the way he does? _- it stopped his thoughts, it stopped the racing and frustrating thoughts from him; it _protected _him.

That is something he could never explain without having to explain the thoughts.

His thoughts? _John. _

_John. John. John. John. _Always John. Never the cases any more, his instincts had grown weak by the thoughts of John.

He couldn't blame John for his addiction - _not an addict! _- of course he couldn't, because it wasn't John's fault. Well, it could be if he thought in a non-logical sense; he could blame everything on John. The way he constantly flowed over Sherlock's thoughts was definitely his fault, the way his voice left an echo in Sherlock's head was also John's fault, and-

_No. It's not his fault, shut up._

If it wasn't John's, it must have been his own and that wasn't going to make him feel any better than he did now - the clawing sensation down his arms, _oh how he wanted to just itch that away _- and the bickering frustration in the back of his mind, _just go away. _

He needed it but he was not going to get it. And that made him feel almost lost in his own mind as his head fell back against the sofa cushion.

* * *

**Personal AN on why I haven't been updating: I've been having a few problems at home and with people who I thought were my friends and aren't any more, and girlfriend problems so my heads not really been in the game. I'm sorry if I took ages for this crappy short chapter, but I'm gonna get over all these personal problems and escape into my fanfiction world, okie dokie?**

**Until then my lovelys! x**


	5. Henry Saint

**Most people like to have a life, whereas I prefer to sit in bed thinking of ways to make Sherlock a writhing mess of distraught. **

* * *

John emerged from the hallway and regarded the harsh-looking body on the sofa. The atmosphere in the room had changed and the intensity had been increased; suddenly John wanted to drop to the floor and not get up.

"So," John started, "I threw the box out."

"Mmm." Was all he heard from Sherlock. Clearly the other man was thinking and John thought that maybe that _wasn't _such a good idea during his obvious state of mind. Especially when he realises he isn't going to be able to use, but knowing Sherlock, he'd find a way. John needed to be careful.

"I'm going to let Lestrade know I didn't find anything." John headed for his phone in the kitchen.

"Yes." Sherlock acknowledged quietly. It seemed as if he wasn't actually listening, which he probably wasn't, but nonetheless, John did ring Lestrade and explain that he hadn't found anything. Lestrade was understanding and voiced how glad he was that nothing was found.

"Okay. All right I'll tell him." John laughed into the phone, "yeah, thanks, and bye."

John ended the call and turned towards the living room and looked at Sherlock's slim body laying on the sofa. _Well, he definitely needs to eat something. _John cleared his throat and rolled his eyes when Sherlock didn't even glance at him.

"You hungry?" He tried perhaps too quietly.

"No."

It was times like these when John didn't feel like a flatmate but more like a mother, "When was the last time you ate a proper meal?"

"What day is it?" Sherlock asked absent-mindedly.

"Sherlock..." John sighed heavily.

"It wasn't long ago when we, well _you_, ordered Chinese." Sherlock was now looking at John and he looked very distracted, but not because of John's talking.

"That was _two nights _ago, and you hardly ate any!"

"I told you I wasn't hungry."

John made a loud sound in his throat that was similar to a growl or a frustrated sigh, he then calmed himself down and took a deep breath, "I am going to make you a sandwich and you are going to eat it, okay?" John was already halfway to the kitchen when Sherlock spoke.

"John I-"

John looked at him dangerously, "you _what_, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was silent, and if John wasn't mistaken, there was something akin to fear in his eyes before it disappeared and he forced a smile. "Nothing. Do we have any blackberry jam?"

John also smiled, "yes, in fact, we do."

And the conversation was left at that. John made Sherlock a blackberry jam sandwich and he did eat it, well, half of it before he spoke. "What did Greg want you to tell me?" Sherlock asked from the sofa, half eaten jam sandwich in one hand, typing at the laptop with the other.

"Oh, that someone else has been reported missing."

Sherlock paused. "What?"

"Yeah, er, some man called Henry Saint. Was reported last night." John said as he turned a page of the newspaper.

Suddenly, Sherlock was standing, half of a sandwich back on the plate and he was headed for his coat on the door. John stood as well, "What's going on?"

"Don't you see? Another man- another _victim_!"

John nodded slowly as Sherlock put his scarf on and looked down at the plate on the coffee table, "you didn't finish your-"

"We don't have time! She's probably plotting it now." Sherlock gave a small, sinister smile before putting his coat on.

"Plotting what?" John asked as his own coat was shoved into his arms by the other man.

"Are you really so blind, John?" Sherlock asked, gliding down the stairs. John followed quickly behind and sighed as Sherlock was already hailing a taxi.

"How could this be another victim? It hasn't been two months." John questioned after they climbed into the taxi.

"Tina Regent put her off - she's losing her touch, but _why is she doing this?_" Sherlock hissed to himself as he looked out of the cab window, restless in his seat.

John eyed him up before speaking again, "where are we going?"

The answer to his question arrived ten minutes after he'd asked it as they pulled up outside Scotland Yard. Sherlock practically threw his money at the cab driver and rushed into the building as John followed behind, wondering how this man could be so energetic when he barely ate and slept.

Sherlock barged into Lestrade's office, ignoring a sneering welcome from Sally at her desk. She set John a questioning look and he just shrugged before entering Lestrade's office quietly. Immediately he heard Sherlock's voice and saw him leaning over the desk, face only inches from Lestrade's, speaking lowly but if John was honest, Lestrade looked a bit threatened.

"-most likely that the family will know his location so get me their address. _Now._"

Lestrade blinked a few times and nodded. "Fine. Fine." He coughed and backed his chair away from his desk - more likely from Sherlock's deadly stare - and left the room with a panicked look towards John. Sherlock turned around to face John, who by now, was staring the other man down with a hard look. "Want to tell me what that was all about?"

"What do you mean?"

"I have never seen him move so fast - and he's a fully trained officer - so." John finished, crossing his arms.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, his eyes flickering around the room before focusing on John. He really wanted to know what was going on inside that head. "We don't have much time. If we're going to find Henry Saint alive, we need to work fast, and the last thing I want to do is to sit around, giving reasons for my actions."

"Right, so you threaten police officers instead."

"I didn't threaten him."

"You were leaning _over _him, Sherlock - trying to intimidate him!"

"Intimidate, yes."

"You-" John was going to rip his head off in a minute, and he would have done if it wasn't for Lestrade rushing back into the room and handing a file over to Sherlock.

"I've got officers scouting neglected areas-"

"It's obvious you're not going to find him, she's killed six other men successfully, do you really think she would make it so obvious." Sherlock muttered whilst looking through the file.

Lestrade turned to John as Sherlock sat in the chair behind the desk and began muttering to himself whilst looking at the file. "Are you _sure _you didn't find anything, because that. That was not normal behaviour." Lestrade whispered and flicked a glance at Sherlock before looking at John again.

John swallowed hard and nodded, "I looked everywhere, I turned the entire flat upside down, even my own bedroom. I even asked Mrs. Hudson I got that desperate."

"He must just be having one of those days then." Lestrade scratched the back of his head before the file was launched at the wall behind Lestrade, only inches from his head.

"Jesus Christ Sherlock, what the fuck?" Lestrade yelled turning to face the taller man standing behind the desk.

"Some bloody moron spilled coffee over the personal details section of the file, most likely Anderson because the coffee was black with two sugars, and only an idiot such like Anderson himself would try to wipe the coffee rather than dab to avoid smudging the ink!" Sherlock huffed in annoyance and ripped off his scarf, "who the hell drinks coffee when looking at confidential police files!?"

Lestrade glanced at John before speaking, "I'll go and see if I can find a copy."

"Probably too late now anyway. Henry Saint is most likely dead." Sherlock muttered taking his phone from his pocket.

Lestrade turned to John before leaving, "see if you can calm him down."

John nodded as Lestrade left, closing the door quietly behind himself. John was suddenly at loss for words and unsure of what to do. _How do you deal with a frustrated Sherlock? _

"Anything you need?" John asked. Oddly enough, his voice sounded so tiny to how it usually sounds.

"Replace the Met with people who have an IQ higher than five and I'll be satisfied."

John crossed the distance between them until he was standing in front of the desk, "I really think you need to rest, this case is getting to you."

"I don't need to rest-you need to rest." Sherlock paced back and forth.

John blinked, _wow, that was a very bad comeback. Proves my point though. _"One of these days you're just going to crash and I'll have to be the one to pick you back up."

Sherlock didn't reply, instead he kept pacing and muttering to himself. His phone beeped in his pocket and he grabbed his quickly, flicking over a message that he'd received. John saw his eyes lighten and he dashed for the door. "Holland Park." Was all he said before he ripped open the door to the office and yelled at Lestrade who bumped into him, "Get everyone to Holland Park, that is where he is-Holland Park."

Lestrade took a moment to recover from the yell, it was quite a comical site to John, the poor officer looked like he almost had a heart attack. Suddenly, twenty-odd Met officers were pushed into riot vans and paramedics were already on the way. It was rushed and busy on the crime scene when everyone arrived.

Sherlock, however, was calm and content, walking past the reinforced police officers and heading to the abandoned toilets hidden by a few trees near the east side of the park. Lestrade looked at John questionably and jogged after Sherlock; John followed along with the officers behind him. "Oi, where are you going, you said Holland Park."

"Yes, this is Holland Park." Sherlock said swinging the door to the male toilets open. He covered his nose and mouth once the door was open, John grimaced and coughed at the smell. It was vile. It was the most indescribable smell imaginable.

"Christ." Lestrade waved a hand at the smell, "smells like he's dead."

"No." Sherlock mumbled into the scarf before darting forward. A few moments after he went in, John and Lestrade exchanged glances before they heard, "what are you waiting for, I need your help."

John rushed in and saw Sherlock kneeling on the grimey floor, his hand on the shoulder of, who John assumed to be, Henry Saint. His body was battered and bruised, he had blood stains on his shirt from his broken nose and Sherlock was holding a clear plastic bag that evidently, had been ripped off of Henry's head. Henry was leaning against the wall in a sitting position, barely conscious.

Within seconds, Lestrade called for the paramedics and the place was infiltrated with police officers, searching the stalls and female toilets too. Sherlock left the male toilets and coughed a few times when he removed his scarf from his mouth and nose.

"You ok?" John asked feeling slightly ill.

"I'm fine." Was all he got as a reply.

"How did you know he was in there?"

Sherlock regarded John for a moment before turning to look at the park, filled with interested parents and children all looking on at the scene. "Henry Saint, also known as Fesrey Dufrae, was homeless for two years. I thought I'd recognised his name somewhere. This is where he slept in the winter, he said it reminded him of his childhood; when his father brought him to this park."

John blinked a few times, "Sorry, you 'recognised' his name?"

"Yes. When I was on the streets, we met. He called himself Fesrey, he was very friendly." Sherlock nodded at the memories and John gawped up at him. "Of course after I deduced him, he broke down and told me everything that happened in his life."

"Right. Well...right." John looked around the park. "And how did you survive in the winter?" It was genuine curiosity and it made Sherlock look at John with surprise. He opened his mouth to answer but closed it again, looking back towards the park.

Finally, he spoke, "I knew people."

John frowned and began to speak again before Lestrade trotted over, "he's not that badly injured, looks like we got to him just in time."

"All of the victims died in the same way." Sherlock said.

John and Lestrade exchanged glances, "what?"

"She kills them all in the same way; suffocation. She smothers them..."

"But the bruises on Billy Rege-"

"They were far too light for it to be strangulation. I'm disappointed, John, I thought you would have seen that." Sherlock began and John looked awfully offended. "The bruises on Billy's throat indicate more of an affectionate feeling towards him than the others."

"Affectionate?" Lestrade scoffed, "how does that look affectionate to you?" He pointed towards the stretcher with Henry's body being carried out of the dirty toilets.

"She's a psychopath." Said Sherlock immediately, "this is her way of revenge, or proving a point or...or..."

Sherlock trailed off, deep in thought.

"Well, I-"

"Sentiment!"

"What?"

"Never-mind." Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, "Right. We're done here for today, good work Sherlock."

Sherlock muttered something incoherent and walked off, passing under the newly placed police tape. John smiled weakly and followed after him. He grabbed Sherlock by the elbow and pulled him round to face him. "What the hell is wrong with you?" He began, "you threaten Lestrade, you throw a bloody police file at his head and now you're sulking off a crime scene!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and rubbed at his temple, "Be quiet, John."

John blinked a few times in astonishment, "'Be quiet?'" He repeated, "You want me to 'be quiet?'"

"That _is_ what I said."

"You-" John thrust a finger towards Sherlock and poked him hard in the chest, "don't _you_ tell _me _to 'be quiet' when you're the one who decides to stomp around the living room and play your bloody violin at ridiculous hours of the morning. You're the one who doesn't quite know when to _shut up_ in a conversation that _clearly _is insulting someone. Don't fucking tell me to 'be quiet', you insentient arse!" John was about ready to explode. He felt a lot better getting that off his chest; if Sherlock wanted to play this game, then so be it.

Although, John wasn't quite sure what this _game _was.

Sherlock looked down at John with wide eyes, he looked more shocked than John had ever seen and that made John feel a little bit proud and a little bit embarrassed at the same time.

"Now get a bloody taxi before I stuff your body in the ambulance." John pointed towards the main road and Sherlock started walking onwards, quickly. John followed suit, feeling maybe just a little bit bad about his outburst. Sherlock was a handful, and although he was John felt compelled to just deal with it all without complaint, well he did complain here and there, but he'd never had an outburst like that before.

He would talk to Sherlock later and apologise, but right now he just wanted to get back to Baker Street and have a shower. He could still smell the putrid toilets.

* * *

**Jawn go easy on him pls, he's having a hard time. **

**I only know the basics of cocaine withdrawal so forgive me if I don't write that much into it, I've already done a lot of planning and research for this fanfiction, I don't feel like frying my brain. When I'm around family, I'm like freakin encyclopaedia now. "Did you know a body's decomposing process is determined by the temperature of the room it's in?" - yes, brilliant way to start a conversation with somebody you've never met before.**

_**Next time: Drug withdrawal starts to fully kick in when little pieces of the crime begin weighing down Sherlock's brain. John feels the full effect of Sherlock's withdrawal. **_


	6. Withdrawal

The cab ride home was awkward and silent. John threw a few glances at Sherlock but received none in return, Sherlock probably noticed because the cabbie certainly did. Or maybe he was too much in thought. What if what John said really affected him? What if John had really, really hurt Sherlock's feelings this time?

All that guilt started building up and John wanted to get to Baker Street sooner than ever.  
Once they arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock opened the door to the flat and they took off their coats in silence.

It was when Sherlock stood in front of the window and stared down at the street below that John finally lost his cool. "I'm sorry. For what I said before, I was angry and- I'm just. Well, sorry."

"It's all fine." Sherlock said quietly.

"No it's not because-"

"John, it's fine." Sherlock reassured by turning and smiling at John. John felt compelled to smile back but couldn't bring himself to. He knew it wasn't fine, because it definitely wasn't fine!  
_This man will be the death of me.  
_

"What's going on with you, really?" John blurted. He wanted to take it back as soon as they made eye contact again, John saw a different kind of look in Sherlock's eyes, similar to the one he saw _that day_, if not, more intense.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked.  
He saw Sherlock scratching the back of his neck, but it wasn't a usual, every day scratch. It was hard, desperate, John was sure he was going to break the skin. Then it hit him and John wanted to punch himself in the face.

_Withdrawal._

Of course it was drug withdrawal. Mood swings, itching, irritability.

John crossed the distance between him and Sherlock and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, bringing up his other hand to ease Sherlock from scratching the back of his neck any more. Sherlock looked at him with confusion, then he seemed to recoil slightly at the intimacy between the two.

"Sherlock?"

"Didn't you say you wanted a shower?" Sherlock asked turning back towards the window and slipping his hands into his pockets.

John frowned, "no, I didn't."

"Oh." Sherlock sniffed.

And that was that. John looked around the living room before sighing quietly and leaving Sherlock alone. He did actually really want a shower, he assumed Sherlock realised this when he kept grimacing in the cab.

* * *

_Damn John. Damn him to hell._

Sherlock paced the living room, scratching at the material covering his arms. He didn't mean what he thought, of course he didn't, it was just unnecessary anger bubbling to the surface. He just needed to stop and calm himself down.

_No!_

Except he couldn't calm himself down, not with the crawling sensation on his skin and the muddled thoughts playing tennis in his mind. He didn't need to stop and calm down, he needed-

He _needed it_. He paused and listened for the running water of the shower- _how long had John been in there? Would I have enough time to search his bedroom?_  
Sherlock looked towards the bathroom door. He was about to dart up the stairs when he stopped himself. He promised John he wouldn't touch cocaine again, he didn't want to have to face John's disappointment when he finds out, because John would find out, it was only a matter of time.

His mind was conflicting itself and he was starting to get a headache, he felt _lost_. He wanted John, not the cocaine. It sounded absolutely ridiculous to him, but that was what his mind was telling him he wanted – no – _needed._

A tap on his shoulder and he whipped around, almost knocking John into the wall. "What are you doing?" John asked giving a questionable look between Sherlock and the stairs. Thankfully he was wearing his pyjamas rather than just a towel or dressing gown. That would be undesirable in this moment of time.

Sherlock put his shaking hands in his pockets, looking down at John with as much strength as he could manage, now that he was thinking about it, he felt awful; exhausted, nauseas and irritated. This was John, he would see through everything. Sherlock never really gave him enough credit.

"Can't one admire the detail of the stairs?" Sherlock murmured.

John frowned, "well...yes, 'one can admire the detail of the stairs'. But why would one _be_ admiring the detail of the stairs?"

Sherlock shrugged and walked back into the living room with John following. What was there to say? He couldn't lie to John, even if he's been lying for months about his feelings towards him, but how could he tell him?

_Well there are many ways to tell him but no specific way would be considered. Why would John punish himself by having an intimate relationship with me? _

Sherlock wasn't facing John – couldn't face John – when John crossed his arms. He could see the expression on his face from the corner of his eye and it didn't look pleased. It looked disappointed, concerned.

That both angered and saddened Sherlock.

John shouldn't be concerned about him, _why _should he worry himself with Sherlock's problems; John had problems of his own. Sherlock clenched his shaking hands into fists.

"You know I didn't throw it away, don't you?" John's voice was tight and it made Sherlock tense. _Since when did I become so concerned with John's thoughts? _But Sherlock knew he wasn't concerned, so to speak. He was almost obsessed.

"John, you-"

"And you were going to get it, weren't you? While I was in the shower?" John's voice rose, "You waited until I wasn't around so you could use that dirty stuff again. Why, Sherlock, why?"

Sherlock mentally flinched. This was ridiculous, he shouldn't be so involved with somebody else's feelings, not even his own. He wasn't supposed to _feel _at all. _Why _was he feeling this way?

"Answer me, damn it!" John said angrily, turning Sherlock around forcefully to face him.

"Yes!" Sherlock yelled suddenly, his head throbbing in pain. "Yes, I was going to search through your bedroom to find the cocaine, yes I was going to inject it into my veins because I need it, John, I need it more than _anything_." Sherlock pointed to himself, "your tiny brain couldn't possibly understand how much of a problem it is to not have that one little thing that keeps it sane. Without it, I am not sane, I feel like I'm losing myself, like I'm lost, and you don't understand, John, not one bit."

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and put his head in his hands, breathing heavily. Why was this all so distressing?

* * *

John stared down at Sherlock on the sofa, speechless. He should have expected an outburst like that, but honestly? He wasn't. Sherlock was a man of few words, except when he was on a crime scene. He was never one to discuss his feelings, especially with John.

"I know its withdrawal." Sherlock said quietly.

"It's not just withdrawal though, is it? There's something else." John sat on the coffee table in front of Sherlock, not sure of how to comfort him. "Why won't you tell me?"

Sherlock looked up and John saw those beautiful eyes. He felt himself going slightly red at the thought of caressing Sherlock's pale face and leaning in to just brush his lips against-

_Focus, John, focus! _

"It's easier said than done." Sherlock scoffed and turned his head away.

"So there is something else." John narrowed his eyes.

"Don't act so surprised. You knew from the start that there was another reason behind my drug use apart from being bored."

"But you didn't admit to there being another reason before." John stopped himself from reaching over to Sherlock's hand. It wouldn't help. He needed Sherlock to feel comfortable with telling John this 'reason' behind his addiction.

"I'm coming to terms with it in my own way." Sherlock murmured and rubbed his hands together, exhausted from his outburst.

John's lips set into a straight line before he stood up. "Well...I'm off to bed, I think you should too."

"Yes." Sherlock stood too, "Goodnight, John."

"Night Sherlock." John smiled and went up to his own bedroom. He wanted to wrap his arms around the other man, comfort him in some way that shows affection. Talking never helped, Sherlock wasn't a talking person and John had come to terms that he never would be.

* * *

**Puttin' my defenses up**

**'cuz I don't wanna fall in love**

**if I ever did that**

**I think I'd have a heart **

**attaaaAAAAAAaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaack. **

**it's not really the soundtrack to this chapter, I just have the song stuck in my head.**


	7. Jessica Barlott and Eli Chard

**All reviews and favourites/follows are appreciated, thank you all so much ;w; ! **

* * *

John awoke when the sun started peeking through his curtains that he forgot to close before he went to bed. He looked over to his alarm clock.

_6:47 Am. _He sighed and sat up; he supposed he wasn't going to get back to sleep now that he was aware of the time.

Sherlock could still be in bed so he tried as much as he could to be quiet. He yawned on his way to the kitchen and almost jumped out of his skin when he saw Sherlock standing in front of the window in the living room, staring outwards to the street.

"What are you doing up this early?" John continued to yawn and switched on the kettle.

"Couldn't sleep." Sherlock replied. His voice sounded dry and dark.

_Insomnia_, John thought. "So you've been up all night?"

"Mm."

"Well, how about later on, I go to the chemist and see if I can get you some sleeping tablets?"

Sherlock turned to John, a sarcastic smile on his face. "I've gone weeks without sleep, I'm sure I'll be fine."

"It's not healthy. Especially with this case and-"

"I am aware of that." Sherlock interrupted angrily, "I'm not an idiot."

John frowned, "I never said you were, I just-"

"I don't need your help, you've done enough." Sherlock's eyes were dark and John felt almost scared to look into them.

"Fine, all right." John put his hands up in defeat, "just let me know if you do need my help."

"Oh you'd love that wouldn't you?" Sherlock hissed, "Playing me like a pack of cards, letting me crawl into your grasp just to close your fist on me; crush me."

John stood bewildered. "What?"

Sherlock seemed to drop his guard for a moment, "never mind." And he turned back towards the window.

The rest of the morning passed in silence. Sherlock staring down to the street below the flat and John reading the newspaper, then watching television, then leaving the flat to get milk and coming back to see Sherlock exactly where he was before. He was a bit wary leaving Sherlock alone again, but he knew he would only be the maximum of three minutes, and Sherlock may be impossibly brilliant, but in no way could he have super speed.

John thought he should say something to break the silence of the apartment and maybe try to get Sherlock to move or at least go to bed. Something; anything! His silence was worrying, although he shouldn't be worried because Sherlock wouldn't speak to days on end, he knew this was because of something that Sherlock probably couldn't control and was obviously having problems with.

John studied his posture: _tense, alert and defensive. _John knew he'd been like that all morning and it was obvious the man was on his last legs, just by seeing how exhausted he looked from when he'd turned around to face John earlier that morning.

"Tea?" John asked putting the milk on the kitchen table. Sherlock didn't reply and John crossed the distance between them warily. "Sherlock?"

"Don't have time." Was all he got. John gave him a quizzical look and look down towards the street to see a police car parked out front.

As if on cue, Lestrade trotted up the stairs with Mrs. Hudson in tow.

"I thought I'd better let him in, it's quite chilly outside today." She smiled at Lestrade who rubbed the back of his neck, looking a bit awkward. He cleared his throat,

"Henry Saint is recovering in hospital, we've had police officers in to question him but he won't talk about anything that happened."

Sherlock turned around, "let me speak to him."

"Now wait a second, he's not mentally stable, anything could set him off and we're not sure what he's capable of doing."

"Do you want me to solve this case or not?" Sherlock asked seriously.

Lestrade seemed to debate it in his head and soon sighed, "Okay, but be reasonable with his behaviour. The poor bloke's traumatized."

"Good." Sherlock nodded and Lestrade gave him an uncertain look. "Not good that he's traumatized, I meant..." He trailed off.

Lestrade nodded slowly and regarded John with a small smile then left.

John looked over Sherlock and then himself, "we'd better get dressed then."

Sherlock nodded and headed towards his bedroom. John watched him go and sighed quietly to himself. Sherlock wasn't making anything easier for him; he was like a whole other person. John never even liked it when Sherlock used his acting skills to question suspects; this just made him even more restless knowing it wasn't an act.

"You're the one who suggested we get dressed and you're not even out of your pyjamas yet." Sherlock mocked, entering the living room in a fresh, dark blue suit that really complimented his figure.

John snapped out of his thoughtful daze and lightly smiled, "I was miles away." He started towards the stairs to his bedroom before he stopped. "Just in case you don't already know, you can speak to me about anything. _Anything_ Sherlock, I promise you." And he climbed the stairs without taking a look back to Sherlock.

* * *

Henry Saint looked much better than he did the evening they found him in those disgusting toilets, half dead. The ginger mop of hair on his head was cleaned of any blood or dirt and his sea-blue eyes were clear and bright, maybe a little bit glazed over but that was due to medication he was taking.

When Sherlock stepped into the room, Henry seemed to make no attempt to notice he was there. Sherlock didn't bother removing his coat or sitting down so neither did John, he silently stood by the door and watched the scene in front of him; this wasn't in his hands. Sherlock had known Henry, it just depended if Henry could remember Sherlock – if he did, it was a good sign, it meant he _trusted _Sherlock.

"Henry." Sherlock's deep voice pierced the silence in the room. Henry looked up towards Sherlock and squinted. His expression switched from confused, astonished and unsure then he smiled widely and sat up.

"Oh my god- it's you, I mean, it's you – Sherlock." His grin never faltered as Sherlock gave a small smile that was obviously forced. Henry's voice was light and distant, almost the complete opposite of Sherlock's.

"Haven't seen you in years. Two years actually," Henry paused and counted on his fingers, "is that right? Two years?"

"Thirty-two months." Sherlock corrected.

"Yeah...yeah, wow that's long. So how have you been, mate?" Henry patted the chair next to him but Sherlock didn't sit down.

"I'm not here for a catch up; I'm here to know what happened with your ex-girlfriend. Well, I'm assuming she's your ex bearing in mind she tried to kill you."

John tutted loudly and shook his head, typical Sherlock, completely inconsiderate. Henry was mentally unstable and he just gets straight to the point. "Sherlock, for God's sake."

Henry looked take a back, "who, Rachel? W-why would she...want to kill me?"

"So her name was Rachel this time." Sherlock said to himself.

"What? 'This time', what do you mean by 'this time'?" Henry frowned. John decided it was his time to step in and explain everything because obviously Sherlock was too busy bloody traumatizing Henry even more, completely forgetting that they were previously 'friends'.

"Your...ex, she's murdered men before you." John began, stepping towards Henry's bed. "She goes by a different identity each time and we're trying to figure out why that is. Is there anything you could tell us about her?"

"I-I...She likes pineapple juice. She liked it a lot. It was weird, because, you know when somebody likes something, they always have it but she never had it, not once since we got together, you know? It was weird because I asked her, I said, 'why don't you ever drink pineapple juice if you like it so much?' And she...well she, she told me to shut up, that I spoke too much. I don't speak too much, do I? Do I?"

John paused for a moment, "did she usually tell you to shut up?"

"Only when I was talking too much, which I don't, because I told her all the time I hardly talk unless she talks to me, because I annoyed her." Henry shut his eyes at the memory. "This one time, I asked her, I said 'Rachel, why do you think I'm annoying?' and she said, 'I won't have you speaking to me like that, I don't like you speaking to me like that.'" Henry mocked a female voice and laughed shortly after. His laughed stopped immediately and he stared forward, frowning.

"She always spoke about Jessica. At night, before we went to sleep, she would stroke my hair and say 'Jessica didn't like him. Jessica didn't like him when he mean. Jessica would have liked you Henry, you're so kind to Rachel.'"

John looked at Sherlock, who gave him a quizzical look and shrugged.

"Sorry, who's Jessica?" John asked. By now, he'd taken out a notepad and started jotting down notes. How could this woman pull off so many different names? And most importantly, how could she turn men into a mess like...well, like Henry Saint.

"I don't really know." Henry's voice was distant again, "I never wanted to ask. I was too scared...isn't it funny how fear runs our lives? We run and we run and we run, but in the end, we're not running. We never run. It's the fear that's running instead."

John turned away from Henry and pulled Sherlock over to the other side of the room. "Jessica could be Rachel's real name." He whispered.

"I was thinking the exact same thing." Sherlock replied and smiled at John. Sherlock turned to Henry, the smile still showing on his face.

"How much did Rachel talk about Jessica?" Sherlock's voice was softer than before and John clenched his jaw, surely his mood couldn't change _that _fast.

"Only before she went to sleep. Or when she was drunk, wow, she would talk about a lot of things when she was drunk."

"Such as?"

"Jessica Barlott or a man named Eli Chard. I would hear her crying sometimes, so I would hug her and she would be okay again. She was always okay when I hugged her..." Henry trailed off. "Why did she want to kill me? I loved her so much, I-I was going to marry her."

"She was going to marry the victims before you." John said. This wasn't making sense to him, he hoped Sherlock understood a lot more than him, because he was clueless.

"Henry, we need you to remember everything you can about her. Did she tell you anything about Jessica Barlott or Eli Chard?" Sherlock asked.

Henry thought for a moment. "She never told me about any of it. I never asked."

"Well. This has been very helpful, thank you for your time Henry." Sherlock smiled and went to leave before Henry grabbed his forearm.

"You will visit again, right Sherlock?" His voice was pleading and small, like a toddler asking his mum for a biscuit.

Sherlock paused and glanced at John, who was standing by the door waiting to leave. He looked back down at Henry and nodded, "yes. Yes, of course."

Henry let out of a sigh of relief and grinned, "Thank you." And he let go of Sherlock's arm. John couldn't help but feel a little bit jealous. He felt ridiculous for it, there was no need, but he could see there was a bond between Henry and Sherlock – there was _something _there. Nothing romantic, John could tell that straight away. But he could just see _something_ unsaid.

Once they had left the hospital room, John could see the shaking in Sherlock's hands again, which he tried to hide by stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Emotional manipulation does nasty things to the mind." Sherlock sighed.

"Mmm, poor bloke." John followed Sherlock out to the hospital car park where Lestrade was waiting.

"No need to pity him, he's been through worse."

"How do you mean?" John asked.

"Never mind." Sherlock threw over his shoulder and approached Lestrade. "Look up the names Jessica Barlott and Eli Chard."

"Who do those names belong to?" Lestrade quickly jotted them down into a note pad whilst speaking.

"No idea." Sherlock said before he began walking out of the car park.

John sighed inwardly and smiled at Lestrade before following behind Sherlock like a lapdog. "Henry really takes to you." John looked up at Sherlock.

"Yes, well, he would." Sherlock mumbled and hailed for a taxi.

* * *

**Next time: John does something a little bit naughty, but it's for a good cause. **


	8. Tea?

It was a quiet ride back to Baker Street; Sherlock was obviously in his 'element', thinking deeply as his fingers tapped on his thigh. John went to speak but was cut off by Sherlock's fierce voice, "shut up, I'm thinking."

He should have known really, when Sherlock was thinking you don't disturb him unless you want some sort of gooey chemical in your shoes the next day. Once the pair were back at Baker Street, Sherlock immediately stripped himself of his coat and began pacing manically in the living room, rubbing his temple many times before quietly swearing and huffing in annoyance.

John calmly sat in his chair and read the news paper; half of his time was spent watching the mad man in front of him get himself worked up, so he ended up reading the same line over and over again, soon he thought to give up and just try and calm Sherlock down.

"Look, Sherlock, just sit down and take a break, okay?" John watched Sherlock pause and turn to him,

"Take a break?" Sherlock almost scoffed. John sighed loudly,

"It's not foreign to take breaks; it will help, trust me."

This time Sherlock did scoff and began pacing again, "there isn't time to 'take a break', John, she could be planning her next murder already."

"Maybe...maybe there's a link between all of the men, like their appearance or something." John suggested rising from his chair. Sherlock paused and looked at John, his eyes lighting up fiercely.

In that moment, John felt like Sherlock's vision had pierced straight through him. It wasn't so much terrifying, maybe just a tad scary. John saw the smile forming on Sherlock's face and felt his body relax.

"Yes! Yes John, you're a genius!" Sherlock grasped John's arms and smiled widely before darting over to the police files. Once Sherlock had let go, John felt a tingling feeling where Sherlock's hands had once been; he didn't _want _him to let go.

"So now we just have to think what this link is." John followed Sherlock over to the files and watched him dig through them, scanning each piece of paper viciously.

"You said it yourself, John; appearance." Sherlock held up six documents and held them out to John, "and what do all these men have in common?"

John frowned at the documents in his hands, "I don't know."

Sherlock sighed, "blue eyes, John! They all have blue eyes!"

John looked up at the grey-blue eyes staring down at him; calculating. "So...that's why they were murdered. Because they had blue eyes."

"Obviously that's not the full story." Sherlock walked over to the window and looked down at the street below. John looked back at the documents, trying to process it all.

Really, it was probably so simple in Sherlock's mind; the man was just so sleep-deprived and was hit hard by withdrawal. All John could do was stand there and watch him drive himself mad. Then an idea occurred to him, he strolled over to the medicine cupboard and dished through the piles of pills and plasters – for when Sherlock ended up slicing his entire arm open by holding a bloody test tube full of reacting chemicals – and found just what he was looking for.

_Clorazepate._

The sleeping tablets he used when he had night terrors. Thankfully there were about seven left in the box, would definitely be enough to...

_Wait, what the hell am I thinking? _Was John seriously considering drugging Sherlock?

"Tea?" He called from his spot in the kitchen.

"Mmm." Was all he got as a reply – _drugging it is then; if you're going to drive yourself insane, at least do it over a good night's sleep._

John prepared himself a mug to make it look less obvious and quickly he popped two – _three? _– No definitely just two tablets into Sherlock's mug and stirred them in with the tea. He was probably going to regret this later, but it was all for a good cause.

He just couldn't stand seeing such a brilliant man tear himself apart – more than usual. John carried the two mugs into the living room, remembering which one was which for his own sake.

Sherlock didn't even bat an eye when he placed the drugged mug onto the coffee table. "Sherlock, you need the energy."

_Oh, I'm a bad man. _

Sherlock sighed dramatically and picked up the mug, taking a large gulp of the boiling tea. John tried to look casual and not stare as Sherlock soon began taking smaller sips and made a strange face at the mug in his hand. "John?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"Did you even add _any_ sugar at all?" Sherlock's voice was quiet and slightly slurred.

"Yeah, I put in two."

Sherlock nodded and looked back towards the street below, putting his near-empty mug on the desk beside him. It was quiet for a few more moments until John spoke up, "you look exhausted."

Sherlock didn't reply but he also didn't protest when John sat him down on the sofa in case he fell and injured himself. John knew to act casual even if Sherlock was half asleep, this man was unpredictable and probably knew the tea was drugged the moment John gave it to him. "Come on, you need to sleep." John wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist and almost dragged him to his bedroom.

"Maybe one would've been enough." John muttered under his breath as he lay Sherlock down on his bed. Looking down at the completely sound body – for once Sherlock was completely sound – John smiled slightly. He laid a kiss on Sherlock's forehead and pulled the covers over him, "night Sherlock."

After he shut the bedroom door did he realize what he'd just done.

_Oh Christ._

* * *

Everything was becoming slow; he felt sluggish to say the least. His brain stopped calculating what had been happening 36 seconds ago – _37, 38, 39 _– His head felt like a train screeching to a stop as he stared out the window of Baker Street, he could hear John speaking to him but he had no way of replying, his voice was gone as well as his thoughts.

What was he supposed to be thinking about again?

John...was it John? Was he thinking of John?

He remembers stress and aches – so many aches – and being cold and hot, a mixture of feelings flowing through his body at one time. He couldn't concentrate, he felt lost and confused – that wasn't a good thing for Sherlock.

_Damn it all_. He felt so tired that his body refused to move. What was happening? Had his body finally decided to shut down on him? This was strange and he couldn't think it through, his mind was completely jumbled. Almost like a jigsaw with three missing pieces.

He had a jigsaw puzzle as a child – a 5,000 piece jigsaw that he liked to solve with Mycroft before he went off to that high class boarding school. Sherlock remembered having one piece missing from his jigsaw – that's how he felt now, right now, sitting on the sofa.

When did he sit down? Another piece missing. Chunks of events were beginning to disappear from his awareness; slowly he was becoming a darkened figure.

Soon everything went black as he felt a soft pair of warm lips on his forehead and light feeling in his chest.

* * *

**Okay so I thought I should let you all know now, my laptop is broken so I'm currently using my dad's, which is very old and pretty much breaking too. If I don't update for a very long time, it is because I don't have a laptop to work on. I'm sorry if this is inconvenient, it's damn annoying when I'm on a role writing a new chapter and my dad wants to use his laptop. **

**Anyway, thank you for the favourites/follows/reviews! Until next time! **

**Next time: How will Sherlock react when he wakes up realizes what happened? And how long until they finally crack this case?**


	9. Confession

**Thank you for the favourites/follows! :v **

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked a few times. What had happened last night? He remembers being distant and that unnerved him, he was always alert; always aware. His throat felt like sandpaper and his brain was trying to comprehend what was going on, everything was suddenly moving so slowly.

He began to sit up, lifting a hand to his head he let out a groan - _Headache, dry throat, blurred vision – _What was going on? He thought back to yesterday..._Yesterday? _He looked over at the clock on his wall. _8:49am_, so he'd been asleep for more than twelve hours. _How? _

Thinking deeply, he remembered John. Ah yes, John, after they spoke to Henry, he and John had come back to Baker Street. Sherlock remembers being confused, frustrated and irritated – _blue eyes, something about blue eyes - _He remembers feeling achy, like a machine needing to be oiled. His bones felt as if they were creaking as he moved and now that he thought about it, that's exactly how he felt now.

Sherlock stood up and stumbled to the door, sighing in aggravation he opened his door and carefully walked out into the kitchen where John was sitting at the table. He admired John's bed hair and almost smiled to himself.

"Oh, morning Sherlock." John smiled as he looked up from the newspaper.

"What happened last night?" Sherlock asked, his eyes were still adjusting to the light in the kitchen.

John was unusually quiet before he spoke, "you were tired so you went to bed."

"Me? Going to bed?" Sherlock scoffed.

"As unbelievable as it sounds, it's true." John said shortly. He then took a sip of his tea and went back to reading the news.

Sherlock could tell there was something unsaid; he could see it in John's features. _Failure to make eye contact, avoiding subject _– _strange. _

Sherlock tried to think back but his brain was somewhat buffering at the thought. The last thing he remembered was John telling him to drink his tea. _Wait..._No, John wouldn't.

_It's the only logical explanation. _But John...

"What did you put in my tea?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, watching for a reaction to determine whether he was going to lie or not.

John paused his reading and looked up at Sherlock. He sighed deeply, put the paper down and spoke, "You were driving yourself mad, I had to do _something_."

Sherlock was, in the most accurate way to put it, shocked. "You _drugged _my tea?"

"I, uh, I put in Clorazepate." John was obviously avoiding looking at Sherlock, "Two, to be precise. It was only to help you."

"You...you-" Sherlock blinked a few times, finding it hard to think through this. John – _his _John – drugged him. "You drugged me."

"Only to help you, Sherlock." John sounded reassuring, but Sherlock felt anger starting to boil in his veins.

Sherlock had nothing to say, what could he say? He was angry and he felt slightly betrayed. He trusted John... John was literally the only person Sherlock trusted and he had just trampled over that trust.

* * *

When John had looked at Sherlock over the newspaper for the first time that morning, he could see that the other man looked ten times better than he did yesterday. However, when the conversation turned and Sherlock found out about John putting sleeping tablets in his tea...well, it could have gone better.

John did feel bad, he knew it was a stupid thing to do but it was probably the only thing he could think of that would help Sherlock, and no way would Sherlock have voluntarily taken the sleeping tablets. When Sherlock didn't speak for a few moments, he looked as if he was trying to weigh down everything, trying to understand the situation. God, now John felt awful.

"I'm sorry." John stood up, "I didn't know what else to do, I hate seeing you so riled up and not being able to help."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, "why would you feel the need to help me?"

John stammered, "Are you seriously asking that? You're my friend, Sherlock."

Nodding, Sherlock rubbed his temple; he'd been doing that a lot lately. "Right. Yes, right. Well, thank you."

John was taken aback, _'thank you'?_ He was expecting an object lobbed at his head or a full blown argument, but instead he got a _thank you_. "It's, uh, it's fine."

"I mean thank you overall, for helping me through..." Sherlock trailed off.

"You don't need to thank me, we're friends and that's what friends do."

"I want to." The smallest hint of a smile was on Sherlock's face and John automatically smiled back.

Their eyes met for a few moments and John didn't want to look away. The way Sherlock was looking at him made him shiver; maybe he should tell Sherlock how he felt?

_After you've just drugged him? _

Ah. John's instinct was right, it was a stupid idea. So was he just supposed to live with never telling Sherlock he had feelings for him? He had to tell him, just not now. Or maybe it was best to never say anything.

Sherlock was the one to look away, "I need to, uhm," he swallowed hard, "I need to look at those police files again. I've got a theory but I need to make sure it's correct."

John nodded, "Ok, right, well I'll get them while you get dressed."

They then both nodded and went their separate ways.

John and Sherlock had been staring at the documents pinned to the wall for half an hour. Three times John had ran his fingers through his hair and said 'I don't know. I'm lost.' But then returned to his original spot staring at the police files.

"There must be _something_. Something we're not seeing, something else. But _what_?" Sherlock hissed to himself.

John glanced at him and looked at the papers covering a majority of the wall. Then he noticed something and stepped back to get a better view, "Sherlock, look at this."

Sherlock turned to give John a questionable gaze before stepping back and standing next to John. He stood for a few moments before asking, "What am I looking at?"

"Look at the names of the serial killer." John walked forward and pointed at each picture of a dead man, "Emily, Laura, Bella – sorry, Isabella, Carol, Hazel, Amy, Rachel."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before John saw something light up in his eyes, "You've done it John - you've found the link!" He exclaimed and darted forward towards the papers.

John felt rather proud of himself, he relaxed his shoulders finally satisfied that they'd gotten somewhere with this case.

"The first letters in each name are an abbreviation of the name Eli Char." Sherlock said quickly as he scribbled on a piece of paper. "Eli Chard was a name Henry mentioned, meaning..." He trailed off and looked at John.

"Meaning there's one more victim." John breathed.

There was a silence for a few moments when only the ticking of the clock could be heard. Sherlock pinned the piece of paper to the wall, "John, call Lestrade and tell him to get here as soon as possible."

John did exactly as Sherlock said quickly and within ten minutes, Lestrade was trotting up the stairs to the flat. He looked exhausted and rough now that John noticed, "This better be important, Sherlock." He huffed.

"Did you research the names I gave you yesterday?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade thought for a moment, "yes, I did, and nothing came up. No criminal records, immigration reports – nothing."

Sherlock sighed to himself and Lestrade looked over to John, "what's going on?"

"All of the serial killer's names are an abbreviation of Eli Chard." John began, feeling very professional. "But it turns out, there's one last victim-to-be."

Nodding slowly, Lestrade turned back to Sherlock. "So what are our options, how are we going to find her?"

"There must be place where she waits. A predator always waits for its prey to come to them." He mumbled.

"Well where do serial killers usually sit back and relax?" Lestrade asked.

"A place with a crowd, with clueless men – easy prey." Sherlock said absentmindedly as he got out his phone and began typing. John wondered if he was asking the homeless network for help, they always seemed to know everything.

" A pub?" Lestrade suggested.

John shook his head, "No, too subtle, a nightclub possibly."

He saw Sherlock glance up at him from typing on his phone. "Very good analysis, John." He smiled, "there's a nightclub just twenty minutes from Oxford Circus called 'Wet Piranha'."

Lestrade snickered at the name and John couldn't help but smile, he tried hiding it by looking down but he knew he failed.

"It's a nightclub; do you really think it's going to have a child-friendly name?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, "anyway, she's known to be seen there more than a few times."

"So, what, we're supposed to just barge into the place and asked for her?" Lestrade asked disbelievingly. Sherlock regarded him with an irritated expression,

"No." Then he smirked more to himself than anyone else, "we'll lure her into a trap."

"How?"

John saw the smirk grow wider and he immediately shook his head, "no, no you're not."

"No he's not what?" Lestrade looked between the two men.

If Sherlock was suggesting what John thought he was, then it was definitely not going to happen.

"Oh come on John, it will be far easier than chasing after her."

"I said no, do you realize how dangerous this is?"

"Sorry, what are you two going on about?" Lestrade stood in between them both and John looked Sherlock dead in the eye as he spoke.

"This idiot wants to lure that maniac into the trap."

Lestrade paused, "well, why not?"

John gave a look of astonishment, "'why not'!? It's bloody dangerous, that's 'why not'!"

"John, I will be fine." Sherlock stepped forward and patted John on the shoulder. John looked at the hand on his shoulder and sighed in defeat.

"If you get hurt, I will kill you myself." John muttered.

Lestrade cleared his throat, "I'll get the boys in their gear then."

"Good, meet us a few streets down at eleven tonight. I suppose it is a rather timid shot in the dark, but it's worth a try."

"Either way, we need to be sure." Lestrade reassured, he then said his goodbyes and left.

John looked over to Sherlock, "I really don't like this."

Sherlock smiled and grasped John lightly by the shoulders, "John, I'll be perfectly fine." He said looking into John's eyes.

John swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. "There's something you should know." He blurted when Sherlock moved away.

"What is it?" He regarded John for a moment before picking up his violin.

_It's now or never._ "Sherlock, I...I, uh, recently I've noticed that I, um, well, I have very strong feelings for you."

* * *

**Cliffhangers, cliffhangers everywhere.**


	10. Denial and Fear

There was a tense silence in the room. Did Sherlock hear him correctly? He couldn't have.

_Surely not, definitely not._

"Now would be a good time to say something." John's voice broke his thoughts and he let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding.

Maybe John had drugged him again and he wasn't hearing right – _no, John wouldn't do that again. _Would he? _What if I told him how I felt last night but I just can't recall doing so? What if John's just toying with my emotions?_

He looked down at the cars driving by Baker Street, he thought about how unaware they all were of what was going on inside the flat. How lucky they were to not think like him.

_John wouldn't do that, would he? _Would he?

"I've ruined everything, haven't I? Me and my big mouth, nice going John." John muttered behind him. Sherlock could feel him turn away and heard him sit at the kitchen table.

"Why?" Sherlock asked; he wanted to know; he _needed _to know if John was telling the truth. But why on earth should he doubt John? He felt the same didn't he? _Do I?_

_Evaluate the situation. _John is his friend, kind and gentle John who is also threatening and often terrifying. John has something about him, an almost pure nature – he's a truthful man, a reliable and trustworthy gentleman. Why would Sherlock doubt him?

_It's too good to be true. _It is, isn't it? Of all the people on this earth – _seven billion one hundred thirty million and fourteen thousand_ – Sherlock happened to be the person John had strong emotional feelings for. It was ridiculously unlikely, John was such a good man and Sherlock...Sherlock was Sherlock.

Yet, he was left with a disgusting taste in his mouth when thinking about falling in love with John-

Love? Possibly, Sherlock had never felt _love _for anybody before, John was the first person he had ever felt so strongly about, elevated pulse, pupil dilation, the term 'butterflies'; it all made sense yet it made little sense to Sherlock. His head ached from all this thinking; he decided to venture back into the present, where John was staring at the back of his head from the kitchen table.

"_Why_?" John repeated.

Sherlock turned around to face him, John – _his John_ – "Yes, why?" Trying to forget these thoughts swallowing him up.

John looked lost for words – _not good, proof of lying _– he then looked around the kitchen, obviously thinking – _avoiding eye contact, also not good._

_Stop it._

"I can't really explain, it's all...It's different." John said; his head in his hands for a few seconds before looking back up at Sherlock.

"What have you heard?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes. He had to be sure – _why do you doubt John!? Stop doubting him! STOP IT!_

"What do you mean?" John frowned, "I haven't 'heard' anything."

Sherlock avoided looking at John and walked straight to his bedroom, ignoring John's calls. He needed to be alone, he needed think; needed to wrap his head around this – all of this. _He's toying with you, Sherlock._

He most certainly isn't, Sherlock knows John, John would never do that.

_Are you sure?_

Obviously.

_John betrayed your trust, he can easily do it again._

Sherlock dropped himself onto his bed, shoving his head under his pillow and hoping for these thoughts to just leave him alone.

It was always John. Always, always his John.

* * *

_Brilliant_, John thought, _I've buggered it all up._

John walked away from Sherlock's bedroom door and fell down into his chair, suddenly unable to get comfortable. He could only think about how distant Sherlock looked – the lost look in his eyes as he walked past John.

This was all John's bloody fault; he just had to say something didn't he? Just when things had settled down, he decided to pull the rug back up. He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing in frustration.

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the flat door and poked her head round, "Hoo-hoo." She called. John sat up straight, smiling at her.

"Yes Mrs. Hudson?"

"I'm nipping out to do a bit of shopping, is there anything you boys need?"

John couldn't help it as the words left his mouth, "a time machine would be lovely."

Mrs. Hudson approached John, "oh dear, what's happened?"

Sighing, John looked straight ahead, "It turns out I am probably in love with the man who is in his bedroom because I scared him off by telling him."

Mrs. Hudson sat on the arm of the chair, "Oh John, give him time, this is Sherlock we're talking about, he's so unpredictable." She smiled placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, "everything will turn out alright, just give it time."

John considered her words and soon smiled, placing his hand over hers and giving it a gently squeeze, "thank you Mrs. Hudson."

"No problem, dear." She stood from her spot, still smiling. "I'll get you boys some things anyway, make sure he cleans out those thumbs from the fridge." She winked.

"Will do, and thank you again."

"I'm always here to help." And Mrs. Hudson left the flat with quick wave.

She was right; John just had to give it time.

* * *

Hours had passed and Sherlock hadn't left him room at all. John had given up worrying himself; he just kept thinking 'I need to give it time, I need to give it time.'

Of course he bloody needed to give it time, he just confessed to his flatmate that he had feelings for him, not everyone takes that too lightly. At the end of the day, what more could John have done? Taken that secret to his grave? Impossible, it would have come out some time.

But what did he think he was achieving? What the hell did he expect to happen, Sherlock to pull him into a hug and snog his face off? John almost laughed at the thought; the man hated being touched as it is, let alone mouth-to-mouth contact with his flatmate.

John put his head in his hands and sighed again, of all the people in the world, it just had to be Sherlock Holmes to make him fall head over heels. He looked over to the clock, _10:13pm_. John needed to alert Sherlock of the time anyway, if this 'plan' was going to go smoothly, which John bloody hoped it did.

After a few more minutes of thinking, John rose from his chair just in time to see Sherlock leaving his bedroom. John gawped at his appearance, he looked...so _young_. A plain back dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, casual dark blue jeans with hung nicely on Sherlock's hips and shiny, smart black shoes. His hair was still a curly mess but it looked a lot more volumized.

"I, uh, I was just about to..."John trailed off realizing he was staring and thought that wasn't such a good idea.

There was a tense silence where John could see that Sherlock was contemplating what to say.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I-"

"John, it's all right." Sherlock interrupted softly. John immediately shut up, he noticed that Sherlock was going to say something again and he prepared himself to be turned away, rejected. Then Mrs. Hudson strolled through the door with Sally Donovan in toll.

"Is your doorbell not working again?" Mrs. Hudson asked John, she turned to look at Sherlock and paused, "you look nice, you two off out?" She winked subtly at John.

"It's, uh, for a case." John forced a smile and avoided looking at Sherlock. Sally sighed loudly,

"Lestrade asked me to get you two."

"We didn't arrange that." Sherlock replied walking past Sally to get to his coat. John couldn't stop looking at the way that shirt fit so nicely around his body, Sally must have noticed because shot John a strange look before speaking again,

"Yeah, well, he said he didn't want you two being late; said there was tension between you." Sally smirked looking between the two.

John shot a glance at Sherlock and their eyes met again, but John was the one to break the contact, "We'd better get a move on."

"Couldn't have said it better myself." Sherlock murmured.

* * *

**Next time: _case closed._**


	11. Case Closed

**Hello friends, I'm updating a day early because I won't be updating for at least a week and a half. I'm currently away with my buddies and won't be able to update, sorry -m-**

**Until next time my lovelys! Thank you for all the comments and kudos and I will see you soon!**

* * *

It was dark and loud in the nightclub; Sherlock couldn't focus as well as usual due to the extremely vulgar pulsating music. It reeked of sweat and alcohol, most disturbingly nearly everybody there was beyond intoxicated, even the staff – would be an excellent place to drag an innocent man off.

Three undercover policemen were sitting near the back of the club, watching Sherlock closely in case anything was to go wrong. Sherlock didn't doubt that anything would go wrong – it most likely could, this woman was smart and very aware; that was the fun in all this.

Sherlock scanned the crowd, not knowing what to expect, this Jessica could be any one of these figures manoeuvring around in the darkness. Sherlock remembered that he must maintain eye contact with her, if his and John's theory is correct, his eyes may lead him to be the next victim. Apart from the uncomfortable background, Sherlock was enjoying this. It was exciting, being right in the hands of danger - how _enduring_.

His thoughts about the case became distant and his mind poured out thoughts about John. He had come to accept that John was his friend; he wouldn't hurt Sherlock – _not in any way unless it was necessary_ – and John was not a type of man who would lie for his own pleasure.

John was fantastic, extraordinary; so, so different from everybody else. Sherlock had his own list of idiots – _which was most like everybody he had met_ – apart from four people. Those four people were on the 'not idiots' list. John was first on that list, then Mrs. Hudson, Molly and then Lestrade. He admired every single one of those people, but with John, it was an entirely different admiration.

John had become a magnificent part of his life so fast that Sherlock knew he was ordinary; he was special to Sherlock. It dreaded him to think he had probably lost John from his reaction earlier.

"Is this seat taken?" A light voice spoke from beside him. Sherlock turned to see a woman, wide friendly smile stretched across her face. Sherlock smiled casually back,

"No, no. Sit down, I insist." He turned round to fully face her. She smiled and thanked him, sitting down with a relieved sigh.

Now, he wasn't very shy on the subject of flirtation but Sherlock wasn't very afraid to say he didn't know the area widely to understand the various levels and tricks. But that didn't exactly matter with this woman – _if it was who he thought _– she wasn't interested in flirting that much was obvious.

Dark brown hair, – _dyed, two weeks ago_ – dull green eyes - _natural, no contacts_ – and purple, low cut, above the knee dress – _cleavage/shortness, matter of trying to impress men, purple – colour of royalty/mystery – very suited_. There were no stains or hairs on her dress which made it difficult to determine her lifestyle of sorts, however he noticed the dress had various creases down below her back indicating she had been sitting down for quite some time.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Sherlock asked, turning on his charm. He wasn't very big-headed, but he would admit that he knew what he was doing when it came to being a gentlemen. He used it on Molly all the time.

"That would be lovely, thank you." The woman smiled again. Sherlock could feel her staring at him as he ordered her a white wine and himself a 7&7. He wasn't the type to enjoy alcohol, but it was all part of the act.

When the drinks arrived, Sherlock sipped his and tried not to look too disgusted at the flavour – _this bartender really doesn't know how to make a good drink_ – Sherlock thought. The woman drank half of her white wine in one go and laughed when she put the glass down.

"Sorry, I didn't introduce myself." Sherlock charmed, holding his hand out, "Adam."

The woman shook his hand and smiled, "Danielle."

Sherlock's brain clicked, _got you_.

"Let's move down the bar, I'll lose my voice if I have to keep shouting." She picked up her bag when Sherlock nodded and they moved nearer the back door, far from the speakers where it was a lot quieter. Sherlock saw the policemen move too so he was still in view of them.

"I've never seen you around here." Danielle said before sipping her wine, staring at Sherlock.

Her stare was unnerving to say in the least and Sherlock couldn't understand why. She had a natural appearance about her but her eyes, they held something deadly.

"Yeah, I'm not from around here." Sherlock maintained eye contact and gave a friendly smile. Danielle smiled shyly and sipped her wine again, looking down at the table.

"You're very handsome." She said, "I wouldn't think you'd have any interest in me."

Sherlock frowned, "what are you talking about, you're beautiful."

Danielle looked up from the table and grinned, "Really?"

Sherlock hated to repeat himself, especially when he was putting on an act. He couldn't deny that she was attractive, not so much as_ beautiful_ – John was beautiful, especially in the morning with his messy hair and tired grin.

"Of course." He replied taking a swig of his drink – I _shouldn't get too intoxicated, I need to be alert. _

"Wow, you're a keeper." Danielle bit her lip excitedly, "do you want to...you know, get away from here?"

Perfect. Sherlock scanned the room quickly, as if deciding the answer when really he was looking for those policemen. He felt a cold chill when he couldn't see them anymore – they had disappeared from where they were before. He couldn't continue looking for too long or 'Danielle' might get suspicious, so instead he turned to her with a playful grin, "Definitely."

Danielle took his hand and led him to the backdoor where he knew the other officers were waiting not too far from the alley that they were headed to. As soon as they were in the alley, Danielle shoved him against the wall and fiercely kissed him, gripping his shirt collar tightly. Sherlock was taken by surprise and didn't return the kiss in time, this made Danielle pull away and frown.

"What's wrong?"

Suddenly six officers blocked the end of the alley and Lestrade darted forward with Sally behind him, who soon came forward and pulled Danielle's hands behind her back, slapping on a pair of handcuffs.

Lestrade held up his police badge and spoke, "Jessica Barlott, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder, you do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned-"

"What the hell is going on?" Danielle yelled with tears in her eyes.

"-something you later rely on in court, anything you do say may be given in evidence." He finished, nodding at Sally to take her to the police car.

"You set me up!" Danielle cried to Sherlock, "Adam? I thought you liked me!"

Sherlock just stared at her with an expressionless face, why should he display any sort of emotion to such a woman? He solved the case, he caught the killer - his work was done.

Danielle – _Jessica _– continued to sob loudly as she was pulled over to the police car. John made his way through the sea of officers and found Sherlock. His heart skipped when he saw John approaching, he swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

"You do not know how relieved I am that you're not hurt, you could have-" John was cut off as Sherlock dragged him forward and kissed him passionately on the lips.

When he pulled away, John almost fell back before Sherlock caught him by his shoulders. John looked stunned, to say in the least. "You...You, ah...Ok." John stammered, blinking a few times.

Sherlock felt warmth spread through him, something he had never felt before. A weight lifted off his shoulders and he could breathe again, he felt at _ease _– John was here, with him and that's all he needed.

"That was the reason, John." Sherlock admitted looking straight into John's gorgeously dark eyes, "you...you make me feel different, you make everything become _real_. When you're with me, I don't feel so lost, I can control my mind. You're brilliant to me, John."

John seemed to take a moment to digest this and Sherlock understood exactly how difficult that can be. He thought deeply for a moment, _what if I've said too much? What if that's too much for John and he walks away? Stupid, stupid, stupid! _

"Wow, Sherlock, I-" John ran a hand through his hair and looked away. Sherlock felt his heart drop, but John looked back at him and smiled warmly, "I don't know what to say, apart from come here you idiot."

John pulled Sherlock into an embrace and chuckled when Sherlock made an 'ooft' sound at the sudden contact.


	12. Please, please

**Hey guys, I'm back! Hope you didn't miss me **_**too **_**much!**

* * *

John and Sherlock had taken a cab straight back to the flat and both fell onto the sofa with a sigh of relief. Now they were still on the sofa, Sherlock with his head on John's chest, both breathing contently. John felt overwhelmed with happiness, he was analysing everything in his head, going through Sherlock's and his conversation just a few hours ago, thinking about how lightheaded he felt from the kiss and how great Sherlock's lips felt against his own.

Yeah, John Watson was a very happy man.

"Sherlock, now that we're together, can I ask you for one thing?"

"What is it?" Sherlock sat up on his elbows to look at John.

"No more experiments in the fridge."

Sherlock made a groan in the back of his throat and threw his head back down onto John's chest, "fine."

John chuckled and slid his fingers through Sherlock's hair, "Lestrade said he wants us in at five."

"I don't want to move." Sherlock admitted.

"Neither do I, but we're going to have to."

"I don't want to move." Sherlock repeated and grabbed John's arm, holding it close to him. John smiled up at the ceiling and just thought of Sherlock as being a child in a grown man's body. The thought made him chuckle and Sherlock lifted his head to look up at him,

"What's so amusing?"

"Nothing," John smirked and patted Sherlock on the back with his free hand, "come on, we're going to be late."

Sherlock groaned in annoyance and lifted himself from the sofa. John sat up but couldn't stop staring at the way that shirt fit so accurately on Sherlock and how those trousers really outlined his arse, "you...you should dress like that more often."

Sherlock looked down at himself and frowned, "I look ridiculous."

"Then change." John rose from the sofa with an amused sigh and walked into the kitchen to boil the kettle. He heard Sherlock follow him and then the man was beside him, leaning on the counter as John took two mugs out of the cupboard.

"John," He said shortly,

"Yes Sherlock?" John popped a tea bag into each mug.

"You are special to me and you make me feel happier than anyone ever could."

John paused and turned his head towards Sherlock and immediately he could see how unsure the detective was about confessing his emotions to John. "That's...I'm glad," John smiled, "I could say the same."

"So when would be the appropriate time for intercourse in the relationship?"

John felt heat rise to his face, God he wanted to hit the bloke for being so blunt, "go and change you tit."

Sherlock turned away and went to his bedroom but John could see the cocky grin on his face. _Indelicate bastard, _John chuckled quietly to himself.

* * *

Sherlock had, finally, gotten changed into clothes which suited his style and John was safe to say that they were happy enough to get this police

interview over and done with, so they can just go home and watch crap telly with a take away.

"I said five," Lestrade's voice called from down the hallway, "it's twenty-to-six."

"Mister Frock Queen over here didn't know what to wear." John pointed towards Sherlock and practically heard the eye roll from the detective. Lestrade eyed the both of them up, soon gesturing for him to follow them.

"Jessica Barlott, although she's denying that identity, is crying her eyes out in that room, poor girl's been waiting almost an hour just to be questioned."

Sherlock stopped Lestrade by his forearm and looked him dead in the eye, "that 'poor girl' has just murdered six men and attempted to murder a seventh. I am late because I have zero respect for such a woman as herself."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a moment before nodding slowly in understanding. Sherlock let his arm go and they began walking again in silence. John was confused as to _why _Sherlock seemed so rattled by this woman, but then he realized the unsaid bond between Henry and Sherlock. It was more than obvious that Sherlock had some sort of grudge against Jessica for almost killing an old friend – John couldn't blame him. He felt Sherlock slip his hand into John and a small smile spread across John's face, feeling the detective's fingers wrap around his.

He wasn't too fond of Jessica, especially when she attacked Sherlock's mouth with her; he wanted to rip her apart.

When they entered the interview room, Jessica had an entire box of tissues in front of her as she cried loudly into one of them. She looked up when the door closed and sniffed loudly, "Adam, thank God, I-"

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." Sherlock acquainted himself with a quick, forced smile.

Jessica's mouth would have fallen off if she opened it any wider; the shock on her face was astounding, as if this had been the biggest plot twist of the century.

"Why did you kill all of those men?" Sherlock began, narrowing his eyes at Jessica.

She was silent until she started crying loudly again, Sherlock just rolled his eyes and held his hands behind his back patiently,

"I didn't kill them, I swear!" She sobbed,

Lestrade placed a file in front of her, "Billy Regent, recognise him?"

Jessica wiped her eyes and inhaled deeply, "I never killed him," she said quietly, keeping her voice under control, "he used to beat me with his belt, so I ran."

John paused and could feel Lestrade become frozen. That was a serious allegation. John felt doubt nibbling away at him and was beginning to feel quite sorry for Jessica, then Sherlock chuckled and all heads turned to him, Jessica's eyes were watering again from her confession.

"Care to explain what's so funny." Lestrade asked, his voice loud and sharp.

"You're lying through your teeth." Sherlock nodded towards Jessica, whose eyes widened as she gawped at the accusation.

"How could you possibly-" John began, suddenly irritated with Sherlock's insensitivity. The detective turned to him,

"You saw Billy's fashion sense – how it matched, how everything fit him perfectly; it was tailored, he wouldn't need a belt." Sherlock turned towards Jessica, "you made him wear tailored clothes."

Of course, John felt like an idiot.

All went silent for about forty seconds until Jessica spoke up, her voice clipped. "I'd like to speak to Sherlock Holmes alone please."

Lestrade looked towards Sherlock, who nodded in agreement, "ten minutes." Lestrade said.

John felt heat rise in his stomach, how could they know what was going on in that room unless they were in there? Nether-the-less, John followed Lestrade out of the room with a quick glance at Sherlock. The detective gave John a small smile as the door closed. God he hoped he'd be all right.

* * *

"So, I've got you here all alone." Jessica began, "what could I do to the great Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, he went to speak but she cut in, "oh? Surprised? You underestimate me, _Sir_. Don't think I don't know Sherlock Holmes when I see him."

"Oh, you're clever." Sherlock commented with an amused tone.

"I am, indeed I am." She smiled and examined her nails, "you're not though, are you? You don't understand me, not one little bit."

"You've murdered six men, what do I have to gain from understanding you?"

"It's eating away at you, isn't it. Because you don't know," Jessica smirked, "do you want to know?"

"It would delight me." Sherlock muttered sarcastically. Jessica kicked the chair opposite out with her foot,

"Sit," She offered and when Sherlock did, she leaned back casually in her chair, "so, I killed six of my fiancés. Not for money, not for fun, but for what?"

"I thought you were going to tell me." Sherlock inspected her closely,

"This is more fun." She leaned forward and rested her head on her hands. Sherlock stared at her long and hard for minutes, trying to see something – _anything_ – but it seemed completely impossible. Then he saw it, the small bald patch missing from the right side of her head as she tucked her hair behind her ear. From the size and shape, it would have had to have been pulled out. There was slight scarring around the area, meaning it hadn't been treated.

_Perhaps she was domestically abused, but by a past lover_, Sherlock thought, _impressively, she can change her attitude and stance within seconds and is, evidently, very good at manipulating – commonly that is indicated that she was manipulated in the past. Same lover? Most likely. _

_Two names, one of which belongs to this woman, another which said woman was known to continuously mention: Eli Chard._

"He wasn't a nice man, then, this Eli."

Jessica's eyes widened and she sat up straight, blinking in surprised.

"Bald patch, side of your head, not noticeable but still quite obvious, well for someone like me, the form of it shows that the hair had been ripped from skin, along with the scarring that makes it even more obvious, then there's the manipulating, which of course you know all about from Eli Chard, your ex husband who abused you for, let's say, four years before he left you for another woman, you being a demented mess decide to get your own back on him by killing off innocent men who remind you of him – their blue eyes, but not before marking them as your own, as Eli did with you; it was his sick obsession and now it's yours."

There was a heavy silence as the two stared each other down, Jessica's shocked expression facing Sherlock's unmoved own. Suddenly, Jessica leapt forward, over the table and Sherlock felt a prick in his neck before he moved back quickly, rising from the chair to feel his legs weaken underneath him.

Jessica watched him fall against the wall with a dark look in her eyes, "you're clever, but not as clever as me." She said as she approached him, dropping the syringe onto the table and pushing Sherlock to the ground.

Her hands were around his neck in an instant and he tried to kick her off but his limbs felt heavy, he wasn't strong enough to stop her from squeezing the life out of him. "Your eyes are beautiful," She whispered.

It had been longer than ten minutes and Lestrade hadn't checked in - and that man yelled at_ him_ for being late.

Sherlock's vision was beginning to dim, he tried to breathe calmly but his mind was betraying him, he began to panic as Jessica squeezed tighter and he could no longer inhale. The last thing that crossed his mind was John before everything faded.

* * *

"It's been ten minutes, is he all right in there?" John was pacing in the hallway,

"He's Sherlock, he'll be fine."

"Everyone always says that, but when something goes wrong, it never changes." John said then paused, "did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"That bang, it was like someone dropped something."

"Probably the idiots upstairs messing about." Lestrade pointed to the ceiling. John shook his head,

"No, no fuck this; I'm going in to check on him." He bolted towards the door, avoiding Lestrade as he tried to stop him.

When John stepped in, his breath caught in his throat. Jessica was on top of Sherlock, hands around his throat. His body rushed into action before his mind could even comprehend what was happening, he pushed Jessica off of Sherlock's body and called Lestrade in, kneeling down to check Sherlock's pulse. His face was deathly pale and John couldn't see his chest moving.

Jessica had been restrained and was shouting things at Sherlock, telling him how 'delicate' his eyes were and how she wanted to keep them when he's on a slab. John panicked and couldn't feel a pulse, he called out to Sherlock, shaking him, "come on, do don't this to me!" He shouted. _No, you're not dying on me._

_Please, please!_ John almost cried as he tried resuscitating Sherlock.

* * *

**Cliffhangers, cliffhangers everywhere. **


	13. Idiot, and Scene

It took at least three minutes for Sherlock to start breathing again, John leaned back as the man began coughing and gasping desperately. John took his hand immediately, "I'm here, it's okay, I'm here." He soothed as Sherlock's coughs lightened. He blinked a few times before looking around the room then back at John,

"John," He rasped trying to sit up. John smiled and helped him to sit up, leaning him against the wall.

Lestrade had called for back-up once Jessica scratched at his eyes; he stood beside John and looked over Sherlock,

"Well you're not dead, that's the main thing." He said with relief. John rolled his eyes and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist, lifting him from the ground, Lestrade helped also with a few words of encouragement.

Sherlock's eyes were glazed over and he looked slightly dazed, John shot him a questionable look when he leaned all his weight onto John.

"She injected me with...something." He slurred lazily pointing to the syringe on the table. John looked over at it, it was small and John could see now how easy it must have been to hide it from officers. Lestrade should have searched her before interviewing her, this wouldn't have happened otherwise.

Lestrade had told John it would be wise to take Sherlock home and John couldn't have agreed more, he'd also said to go to the hospital but Sherlock had outright complained and then said something about 'the truth behind the Mona Lisa', which John failed to hear properly due to Sherlock's slurred sentences. In the end, after minutes of complaining and arguing, John had decided to just take Sherlock home.

"You're an idiot," John said as they sat in the cab, "a bloody idiot. You could have died-no, wait, you did die." He ranted, "My God Sherlock do you know what was going through my head when I couldn't find a pulse? I-" John paused when he felt a weight on his shoulder. He turned to a mop of curly hair leaning on him; Sherlock had fallen asleep. John sighed, smiled and looked out of the window,

"This isn't over," He smiled to himself.

John dragged the half-asleep Sherlock into the flat and gently laid him on the sofa, admiring the calmed face of the other man. Memories hit him of when he drugged Sherlock and he felt the guilt strike him again; Sherlock may have forgiven him but it doesn't mean he's forgiven himself.

Slowly and carefully, John began to take off Sherlock's scarf and coat, not wanting to startle him or think he's taking advantage – God John would never do that and he felt rage even thinking about anyone doing something like that to Sherlock, he was about to dismiss the anger when he saw the light bruises on Sherlock's neck, still developing. He sighed and shook his head,

"You idiot." He smirked and rolled his eyes. He leaned down and kissed the detective's head lightly, "let's get you to bed."

* * *

John was in the kitchen in the morning when he heard Sherlock meander out of his bedroom still in his clothes that were ruffled and creased, "morning," John said from behind the news paper. He got a grunt in reply and smirked, "headache? You were drugged. Because you were an idiot."

"I know," Sherlock grumbled and sat opposite John at the kitchen table, John put the paper down and regarded the messy curls on the detective's head. The panic had drained from his system so he wasn't _that _angry at Sherlock for almost dying. Well, he did die.

_I could kill him for being so stupid. _

"God, you look like a mess."

"I know," Sherlock said again and rubbed at the curls on his head in frustration, "feels like I've been...dragged through a minefield."

"You need to eat something," John stood up and popped bread into the toaster. He smiled when Sherlock went to protest but decided against it and silently observed John.

"John," He began, "I think I should visit Henry today."

John was a bit surprised, "Ok, I think you should too. He needs a friend."

"He does." Sherlock agreed and they sat in silence, eating breakfast. Well, until Sherlock took four bites of a slice of toast and refused to eat any more.

"Fine, don't eat it." John sighed finally, "But don't think that's all you're eating today."

"Yes, _Doctor._" Sherlock rolled his eyes and headed to the bathroom.

"Don't forget to scrub behind your ears!" John called from the sink with a smile on his face. He practically _heard _the eye roll from the detective.

Whilst Sherlock was showering, John heard his phone ringtone. He was confused to see Lestrade's caller ID on his screen,

"Hello?"

"_John, right, Jessica Barlott has been charged with six counts of murder and two counts of attempted murder." _

John's eye went wide, "really? That quick?"

"_She confessed. Eli Chard, well, he hasn't necessarily done anything wrong, so we can't arrest him." _

"He abused her, isn't there-"

"_There's no evidence, besides Barlott said she didn't want to press charges." _

John went silent. He did feel bad for her, he had to be honest. The poor woman was destroyed by abuse, it probably went on for years and nobody was there to help her. _God, _John thought, _I've never felt sorry for a bloody murderer before. First time for everything I suppose. _

"_John?" _Lestrade's voice travelled through the speaker,

"Uh, yes, all right, thanks for letting me know."

"_Another thing, I'm going to need you to come to the Yard to-" _

Suddenly the phone was plucked from John's grasp, "I'm very sorry Lestrade but John happens to be extremely busy and unable to give any sort of statement, as am I." Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder as he spoke, one arm linking with John's.

John could hear the protests from Lestrade before Sherlock said goodbye and hung up the call. The detective smiled at John, his hair damp from his shower and wetting the fabric of John's clothes.

"_Extremely busy_?" John laughed,

"Yes," Sherlock kissed John on the cheek, "I think our time watching dull television with tea and biscuits is overdue, don't you think?"

"Thought you were going to visit Henry?" John smiled contently at the feeling of the other man against him.

"Later," Sherlock linked his fingers with John's, "the kettle isn't going to boil itself."

John chuckled, "then go boil it."

* * *

Sherlock had finally gone to see Henry and he was glad he did. Although it was difficult to explain it through words per se, he made it clear that he had missed Henry. They had shared a lot together when he was homeless; of course he had others to help him, but Henry seemed to make it real that Sherlock was human too, that he needed others too.

As he strolled back to Baker Street, he remembered feeling the cold hands of death, how terrifying it all was – he was never the one for fear, but just feeling your lungs become incapable was beyond painful and unforgettable. He shivered and just wanted to get home so he could sit with John, watching dull television; he hated it with a passion but John made it bearable.

John made everything bearable: eating, sleeping, even Mycroft. He could possibly say he loved John but he understood that that could make the relationship uncomfortable if said at the wrong time, and Sherlock needed to be careful with his words, the last thing he wanted was to upset John, let alone make him uncomfortable.

Maybe a little bit uncomfortable with innuendos and inappropriate sentences, but that was amusing, Sherlock was entitled to a little bit of fun now and again, was he not?

Sherlock unlocked the door to 221B, careful to be quiet as it was fairly late. He removed his coat and listened out for any sign that John was awake; he could hear angry shouting and panicked, quickly he ran up the stairs to John's bedroom and peered in, seeing that John was obviously having a nightmare again.

He thought to wake the doctor but decided against it, he didn't want another bleeding nose, so instead he removed his shoes quietly and climbed in beside John, wrapping his arms around the other man and breathing in his scent; _His John's scent._

He smiled when John quietened and stopped trying to punch at invisible attackers. Slowly, Sherlock drifted into a deep sleep.

* * *

When John awoke in the morning, he was surprised to feel a pair of warm arms wrapped around him and even more surprised to see a mop of curly hair on the pillow next to him. He looked at the detective's relaxed body beside him and felt rather amused, the man was still in his suit, why did Sherlock even own pyjamas when he spent more time in his day clothes?

John chuckled quietly and dropped his head back onto the pillow, feeling Sherlock wrap his arms around him tighter. "Idiot," He muttered and leaned in, pecking Sherlock on the lips and feeling the detective smile against his lips.

The pair of them were perfect for each other, John knew it.

_**-End-**_

* * *

**-sobs- well guys, it has been a wonderful journey and I'm so glad I could spend it with you lovely people. All of your kudos/favourites/follows/reviews and comments are appreciated! I love you all and I'm so happy you like my writing (somebody has to!) ~ **

**Thank you all and goodbye! ~ **

**P.s I know I said this fanfiction would have two cases, but I decided against it because it just didn't go well for me.**

**P.s. If you haven't already and want to read more of my works, you could always check out my profile where I've written two more fanfictions and I'm working on a new one!**

**Oh and WOO I DIDN'T KILL SHERLOCK OFF! my Moffat-Gatiss syndrome has been cured. (_WL Chastain_, your review made me chuckle!)**


End file.
